The Memory of Stained Glass
by BlytheHasFreckles
Summary: Alvin Seville was convinced he was a tortured soul in an empty body. After a traumatic experience in his childhood, he struggles to move on from his broken past and destructive behavior. But just when he hits rock bottom, he develops a connection with a heart as bitter as his own... and soon discovers that he has become a prisoner of his own deceitful mind. AxB Cartoon-verse.
1. Useless Antics

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**Hello, Friend-os! :D So this is my second story... And it's going to be a little bit of a change from my other story because it's a lot more emotional, but I promise you that this one has a decent plot.**

**It's based off of a story I'm writing... so I hope you like it. I won't give anything away, but there will be a long of twists. :)**

**Exciting! :D So, anyway, please feel free to read and write a review (they are greatly appreciated!)**

*******For viewer decretion****, this is rated T+ for swearing, adult material, adult situations, mild sexuality, and violence. The whole sha-bang. Woo-hoo.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Chipmunks or Chipettes. Just the plot and stuff.**

**So, without further ado, I give you Chapter 1! **

**-Blythe**

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_Chp. 1: Useless Antics_

_Dear Doctor Callaway,_  
_Here's the list of the things Alvin has eaten so far this week. I've been trying to get him to eat more often, but he seems to be getting to be more of a finicky eater than before... We might need to come and see you again - Alvin's beginning to faint during his daily classes and he's refusing to talk to his friends, classmates, and teachers. Please let me know what would be an appropriate time for us to come and pay you a visit. _

_-David Seville_

_Thursday morning: half of an orange and ¾ a cup of bran flakes_  
_Thursday, 1 pm: half of a ham and cheese sandwich, a small stock of grapes_  
_Thursday dinner: Half a cup of baked beans and a cup of instant noodles for sodium_

_Friday morning: Half of an orange, ¼ of a cup of cherrios_  
_Friday, 1:30 pm: Nothing_  
_Friday dinner: A small tossed salad and a leg of turkey_

_Saturday morning: Nothing (he slept in)_  
_Saturday, 3 pm: a slice of deli cheese_  
_Saturday dinner: a dinner roll and ¼ cup of italian ice_

_Sunday morning: Ham, two eggs scrambled, a blueberry muffin_  
_Sunday, 2 pm: grits and two graham crackers_  
_Sunday dinner: __  
_**Note: I caught Alvin throwing up his breakfast and lunch at around 4 today. We might need to pay you a visit within the next few days before he gets worse._

_Regards,_  
_David Seville_****

Alvin Seville lived on 66 Cedar Drive, Los Angeles, California. Sunshine, rolling hills, a view of the city from any suburban neighborhood. The golden-sanded beach were not a far shot from here, and if you took a deep enough breath, you could smell the salt of the shoreline from where you stood on Cedar Drive. You could say that this location would be an appropriate address for Alvin Seville if you were looking at the way he was living seven years ago. It was a jubilant neighborhood with families houses lined up perfectly on each side of the street. Manicured lawns and white picket fences; the suburban life. At that time, it would be normal to see nine year-old Alvin running around in his backyard, or perhaps building a treehouse, playing at the downtown arcade or riding his bike - the things that normal nine year-olds did. And Alvin was, at one point, a normal nine year-old little boy.

What he once was was an exuberant little boy with a thick sense of humor and a knack for household pranks. He would take any chance he got to pull a fast one on you, his signature prank being the old bucket of water above the doorframe trick. Yes, in many ways, nine year-old Alvin exemplified what it was to be full of energy and adventure.

However, life grew long for Alvin after the sudden deaths of his two little brothers, Thomas and Steven. It had been seven years since Alvin was a nine year old firecracker...and it had been seven years since the passing of his brothers.

Alvin now had a face that had grown accustomed to frowning. He would wake up every morning at promptly 6:07am, have what was hardly considered a substantial breakfast, and then return to sleeping up his alarm woke him again at 7:20, giving him only ten minutes to run to school without so much as combing his hair. Ten minutes wasn't enough time for his feet to take him from his house to his homeroom class; in fact, he was late every day. But what did school matter anyway? Alvin never absorbed anything through middle school or high school. He sat there in his seat every morning and stared at his pencil. On good-mood days (which were rare), he would doodle on the corners of his worksheets, but he never made any attempts to do the work. He never bothered with homework, never bothered with projects...in fact, it was a mystery how he was getting through school at all! He just sat there at his desk and waiting for the sharp, repetitious clang of the school bell before he transitioned to each class. He spoke to no one. He looked at no one.

Alvin Seville was empty.

The Seville house only had two doors. One for the front of the house where the entrance was, and one for the back. There wasn't another door in the entire household. Why? No doors meant no secrets. They also had no picket fence surrounding their yard, which made them different from the other houses in the neighborhood, and everyone took note of it. The Seville house was indeed very different.

The drawer for the eating utensils like spoons and butter knives was separate from the drawer for cutting knives and forks. The one containing forks and knives was locked and could only be unlocked by Alvin's father, David Seville. The medicine cabinets were also locked up tightly as well as the tool shed and the hardware closet. Even the oven had a lock on it.

The ceilings of the house were all sealed with plaster, and even if you tried, you couldn't screw in a single hook or nail. No pictures on the walls, no curtains, no window blinds. This didn't bother the residence too much, seeing as the house was empty most of the time anyway. There was nothing to see if one were to peer through the windows, which were also nailed shut from the outside. No lights were ever on in the Seville residence; nobody ever moved around the house too much. The house also contained an erasers whatsoever, therefore the locked utility closet had a shelf dedicated to small packaged bottles of white-out.

Why was this house so unusual?

Because Alvin Seville was a very troubled individual, to say the least.

"So Alvin," said David, his father while watching a reluctant Alvin eat his early morning breakfast one Sunday, "Please eat...please. I'm begging you. We're going to see Dr. Callaway tomorrow, but if you don't eat, you might pass out again! If you want to go see him tomorrow, you need to eat."

"Who says I want to see Dr. Callaway tomorrow anyway?" Grumbled Alvin into his spoonful of oatmeal, "The guy's an overweight conservative baseball junkie who smells like cigarettes and Nyquil and spends his day stuffing his face with ballpark mini-sausages and watching CNN."

"Alvin, that's enough! Don't talk about Dr. Callaway so disrespectfully! He's been treating you for seven years, so show a little respect for God's sake."

"Yeah, okay... well he's doing a real bang-up job... seven years of changing bandages have proven that Dr. Callaway is a 'super-effective therapist.'" Alvin sneered, holding up his arms and indicating the deep laceration scars on his wrists and up the inside of his middle-arms.

"That's it." Declared David, getting up suddenly from his seat, "You finish that oatmeal and you and I are gonna have a little chat, got it?"

"Oh boy. I can hardly wait," mumbled Alvin dryly.

About an hour later, David came into Alvin's room and sat down carefully on his bed. It was now time for one of David's daily father-son chats that seemed to come more frequently these days than they used to.

"Listen, Alvin," Started Mr. Seville, "These episodes of yours are getting worse."

"Episodes? What episodes?" Replied Alvin with a less-than-interested tone, more focused on his Music Daily Magazine than his father.

"I mean this whole 'not talking during school' thing and how you're failing Algebra, History, Spanish, Gym AND Literature! You're good at literature, Alvin! Even when you used to write sarcastic papers ridiculing your topic, you'd at least do your work! And GYM! You used to love playing sports and...then suddenly you don't anymore! Now you've got this whole eating disorder thing coming back and this rotten attitude! When will enough be enough already, huh?"

Alvin pretended to pay attention, turning his body away from his father's in attempt to send the message that he's not interested in what he had to say, nor did he care. David tore the Music Magazine out of his son's hands, getting an immediate, angry response.

"What the HELL, Dave! Give it back!" Yelled Alvin suddenly, "I was reading that!"

"Watch your language, Alvin Seville! I mean it! I'll give it back when you start answering my questions!"

"Oh, watch my language?! FUCK you, Dad!"

Dave spang up, "You see?! THAT'S the bad attitude I'm talking about! Where is that coming from, Alvin?"

There was silence between them for a moment.

"Where is all this anger coming from? Why are you acting like this? Please...I'm asking as someone who's concerned about you. As your father."

"You wouldn't understand," snapped Alvin, "leave me alone."

"Alvin, I'm not going to stand by and watch as you waste away like you did last time. Your eating problem has come back and something needs to be done about it before it puts you in the hospital again. Last Sunday, I heard you throwing up your breakfast again."

Alvin looked down, ashamed. He nervously fiddled with his fingers.

"Alvin, look at me."

Slowly, Alvin returned his gaze.

"...This needs to stop. I've been recording your food intake for the past few weeks and it seems like-"

"What?!" Interrupted Alvin, "you've been monitoring what I've been eating?! What are you, my own personal fucking 'food pyramid' micro-manager?!"

"No, I'm doing it to assure Dr. Callaway that you-"

"FUCK Callaway!" Spat Alvin, "FUCK therapy! If therapy means I'm going to be treated like a baby and watched all the time, then I'm not going to do it anymore!"

"I'm NOT letting that happen!" Yelled Dave, his voice rising in volume, "You need help, Alvin! Whether you refuse to receive treatment or not, you're getting it because you need help! Your mother would've wanted it-" Dave stopped himself. He'd said too much.

Silence returned to the room again. Dave opened his mouth to apologize, but before he did, Alvin spoke up.

"...Please leave my room, Dad. Please. I want to be alone."

Dave sighed wearily and nodded, "Okay. But I'll be back up here in an hour to check on you, alright?"

"Fine." Mumbled Alvin. As Dave left the room, Alvin curled up in a ball and laid on his side, his back to the window. He closed his eyes and begged for sleep even after dawn had already broken.

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**Thanks for reading, you guys! I know this story's starting off pretty sad and gloomy, but eventually things will get a little better! You'll have to stick around!**

**I'll be updating soon, so keep me posted! :)**

**-Blythe**


	2. Up in Smoke

**Hey friend-os! **

**One quick thing - I forgot to mention the year - ****It's 1994. **

**Secondly, I just want to clear up that ****I'm actually not using any OCs**** except for the adult figures in this story (except Dave, of course)... and I will be using all characters from the series in some way or another :) I know in the first chapter, it seemed like I was using OCs for his brothers because their names are different, but it's not what you think. ;) You shall see, my friends.**

**So anyway, here's Chapter 2. Hope you like it!**

**-Blythe**

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_**Chp 2: Up in Smoke**_

**Alvin's Point of View:**

Every night, I have the same reoccurring dream. In my dream, there are these lights. First, they're two glowing eyes a mile away. They're an arm-span width apart and a safe distance away - only floating orbs; Like fireflies.

Next, they collide with me... And after the lights pass, I can't hear anything. All I see is red and grey - and I hear screaming, I hear sirens, I hear sounds of broken glass and weak moans from voices I don't recognize. I feel nothing in my neck, arms, and back. I can't open my eyes and I pry my mouth open to scream, but my tongue tastes like iron and salt and I feel warmth turning into water and spilling over my lips. I hear people's voices and heat against my neck, but I don't know who these people are. After I try opening my eyes, I shut them again and keep them shut. _Pain_. Now there's nothing left for any of my senses to feel but pain. And it won't go away. My heartbeat sounds slowed, repeating over and over until I feel it stop. My lungs don't expand anymore. I fade into blackness.

Then suddenly, I feel light. I feel weightless and sewn together; fixed. I hear music and the sounds of breathing and creaking wood. No more pain, just music. I open my eyes - I'm in a room surrounded by stained glass windows, sitting in a wooden church pew. No wood panelling or wooden arches - nothing around me but stained glass windows. The stained glass windows on my left side have broken looking pictures of children playing together in a field and holding hands. I look to the right and I see animals of all species and shapes - even some I don't recognize. They all look like they're waiting. I look behind me and I see nothing but blue and black patterns of glass scattered. Then as I turn to see what's in front of me, I see stained glass mountains, rivers, oceans, deserts, meadows; the most remarkable stained glass creations I've ever seen.

I look back to my right and I suddenly notice someone. Sitting beside me is a small woman with bright eyes watching me - Mom. I smile at her. I say to her, "Mom...where are we? When are we leaving?" She shakes her head and puts a finger to my lips, silencing me.

"We're almost there, Alvin. Almost there," she says. Then she is gone like dust, and I am alone again.

Third person:

"Alvin."

No response.

_"Alvin!"_

Still nothing.

"ALVIN."

Alvin was staring at a spot on the wall for a couple minutes in deep thought. It was a small hole underneath the windowsill next to a small game cabinet and it was quite bothersome to him. He often wondered what might've made a home in that wall and why Dr. Callaway had chosen not to patch it up with plaster like Dave does when something in the house seems out of place.

"ALVIN!" Barked Dr. Callaway to the stony-faced teenager on the couch, "Hello? Hey!"

As soon as Alvin snapped out of his deep trance, he peered up at his therapist, "Hm? What?"

"Alvin, I've been trying to get you to pay attention for the past ten minutes! Where has your head been, huh?" Complained Dr. Callaway, clicking his pen and taking down some observational notes on his clipboard, "You're awfully pensive today."

"Right. Pensive," Repeated Alvin, not quite sure what to make of the word. He turned his attention back to the hole in the wall. It was now beginning to irritate him.

"So Alvin," began Dr. Callaway, "Your father seems to think that your eating problem is returning. Is there any reason why?"

He received no answer; just a blank stare. After a moment, he took note of Alvin's spacy behavior.

"Hey doc," pondered Alvin out loud, "ever think about patching up that hole in the wall over there? You don't have any lovely mouse neighbors in the walls that you feel sentimental for, do you?"

"You haven't answered my question yet, Alvin. Why aren't you eating?"

More silence.

"...Do you know how many species of bugs might be living in that hole? Probably thousands. Little bug families all scurrying everywhere and stuff... They'll get in your business big time, y'know?"

"Why have you chosen to purge your food after eating, Alvin?"

"What I'm sayin' is that if you like to eat in this room a lot, you should patch it up. Otherwise, you're gonna have unwanted visitors-"

"Alvin." Halted Dr. Callaway, "this will be over sooner if you just answer my question instead of avoiding it. I suggest you do it unless you'd like me to continue to prod you."

Alvin grumbled something under his breath and stood up, beginning to pace. This commonly happened whenever Alvin felt he was being forced into a corner or being pushed further than he was comfortable. He tugged at his hair anxiously.

"Why do you know to know so badly, huh? It's my body. I can do what I want with it."

"That true, Alvin, and your father and I understand that. We understand your sensitivity about your eating habits and I'm not trying to _upset_ you, but your father is very concerned. Don't you remember the last time you had this problem?"

Alvin remembered alright - it was hard for him to forget. He had the same eating problems a year and a half ago, but it was much worse. He was admitted into a hospital after having a nervous breakdown triggered by the anniversary of his mother's death and his lack of nutrition. He had tried to set fire to his school's auditorium, causing collateral damage to the electrical equipment and several rows of seating and faced the possibility of juvenile incarceration. After going to court for his act of rebellion, it was determined that he was to be checked into a psychiatric hospital and wasn't allowed to leave until his weight had returned to normal and was officially declared mentally stable to interact in a normal environment again. Alvin began to pick at his fingernails, trying to push away the memories he had of the psychiatric institution.

"You don't want that to happen again, do you?"

"No."

"Good. Now please sit, Alvin."

Alvin sat begrudgingly on the arm of the couch, avoiding eye contact with Dr. Callaway. Flipping through pages on his clipboard, the psychiatrist finally began his evaluation.

"Okay. Now tell me, Alvin. Why don't you want to eat? What is your problem with food?"

Alvin just sat, silently plucking his fingernails. Dr. Callaway continued to prod him.

"Do you feel remorse stemming from anxiety in your environment? Are you ashamed with the way you look?"

"No," replied Alvin reluctantly, "It's just... I... I lose my appetite and feel full when I eat anything. Anything at all. Even when I drink water."

"I see..." mumbled Callaway as he jotted down notes, "And does it give you a sense of release when you force yourself to vomit?"

Alvin glanced up from the spot he was staring at on the wall, becoming more direct with his answers, "No. Actually, I feel awful when I do that. Like I gave up on myself."

There was a pause as the doctor wrote that down. The red-clad chipmunk was beginning to feel more exposed than what he was comfortable with. If it had been seven years previous, he would've had no problem talking about himself for a full hour. One could say that he had slight egotistical tendencies at that age. He was the confident one; the cool one. In fact, he was the go-to guy when his brothers were around. He was popular with the ladies and enjoyed sports, things that a boy would usually enjoy at that age. But when the accident happened, it turned his world around 180 degrees.

"Alvin, how have you been sleeping?"

The boy didn't answer this. He hated to discuss his sleeping more than he hated discussing his eating disorder. The reason was because lack of sleep ment lack of developmental normalcy, which means he had a bigger chance of being medicated due to sleep problems than his food problems. He hated medication significantly more than he hated therapy. It never worked and it caused him to feel unstable and ill all the time.

"Please answer my question, Alvin."

"Sleep? What's sleep?" Answered Alvin in a joking way, feeling his confidence decline with every ticking second, "sure as hell haven't had that in a while..."

"On average, how much sleep do you get a day?"

Honestly, Alvin hadn't had a good night's rest since he was released from the institution. However, if he told Dr. Callaway that, he'd have the possibility of being put back in that place again. He couldn't risk that happening again.

"Um... maybe four or five hours," he lied. If there was anything Alvin was good at these days, it was lying.

"Okay, good. That's an improvement! And what do you dream about? Can you recall any of your dreams?"

Of course he could. He had the same terrifying dream every time he fell asleep. That's why he'd avoid sleeping at all costs; he was sick of the nightmare that plagued his unconscious mind. He was tired of waking up in cold sweats. He was tired of remembering the accident. Remembering the stained glass. Remembering his lost family members.

"Nope. Don't remember a thing," he lied, pasting on a false smile. He pretended to glance at his watch, "Oh dear! Look at the time! Dave will probably be worried sick by the time I get back home!" He sprung up and grabbed his coat, rushing to the door and pulling it open, "I'm glad we had this time, doc! See ya next week!"

"Alvin, we still have twenty minutes left! Sit d-"

"See ya!" With that, Alvin quickly shut the door and raced down the hall to the staircase, desperate to get outside. When he got outside, he immediately trekked through the alleyway, afraid of being caught and brought back in. The chipmunk wanted to go home to his life of silent solitude.

On the way back to his house, Alvin stopped by the corner store to buy some cigarettes. He knew Dave wouldn't approve of him walking home by himself, so that gave him very little time to run his errand.

"One pack of Marlboros, please," said Alvin to the cashier. Just as he pulled out his wallet, something caught his eye: sitting on a sale rack at the front register was a rack of brand new packaged Zippo cigarette lighters. There was one in particular that caught his eye - it was a red with an ace of spades symbol in the corner. It was rectangular and meant for long-time use; the collector's item type. The yellow "A" in the corner reminded him of how he used to wear the first initial of his name on the front of everything he wore as a child; back in the day when vanity was his signature and life was easier. He also remembered the damage he caused the last time he'd bought a lighter, the way one simple little flame managed to light up and obliterate half of an entire auditorium. Astounding. What a feeling it was watching everything go up in smoke and flames! It gave him chills recalling the memory. Every time he was in possession of a lighter, he'd always have unconventional ways of using them and for most of the time, it was destructive.

He took the lighter in his hands and looked at it carefully before placing it next to his pack of cigarettes, "This too, please."

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**Okay, guys! Thank you again for the support and for continuing to read my stories! It means a lot to me :)**

**So what did you think? What's Alvin gonna do with that lighter? What will come next? The plot thickens!**

**Reviews are helpful and greatly appreciated! **

**Until next time, over and out!**

**-Blythe**


	3. Down in Flames

**__****Hey friend-os! Okay, so by ****popular demand****, I decided to do something a little different and finally give you guys insight to Brittany's life since you guys were wondering where she is. I think I may continue doing so up until Alvin is finally in a scene with her. **

**Thanks for your continuous support! I really appreciate it!**

**Reviews are helpful and greatly appreciated!**

**-Blythe **

* * *

**_Chp 3: Down in Flames_******

**Brittany's Point of View****  
**  
"We need 15 cc's of Benzodiazepine STAT!"  
"Her blood pressure is rising! If we give her Benzodiazepine, it may cause her to get worse, doctor. Couldn't we just keep the respirator on and give her Valium if her symptoms persist?"  
"We don't have time for that! We need to treat her now!"

All I hear is voices. Unwelcome voices crowding my thinking and I can't hear myself breathing. I feel hands all over me, holding me down and fingers grasp so tightly that they make impressions on my skin. I'm screaming and begging, hot tears streaming from the corners of my eyes, running in rivulets over my cheekbones and settling into the crevices of my ears. I refuse to see what's happening around me as I'm closed in, kicking for a way out, but I get nothing. Just more hands and more red marks on my skin as I'm restrained.

"Dr. Thomas, we can't give her the Benzodiazepine is she continues to thrash about. We'll have to make her swallow it!"  
"And what makes you think she'll do that for us, huh? She's having a major depressive episode and you think she'll voluntarily swallow pills?!"  
"Well I just thought-"  
"If we don't get her heart rate down immediately, she could go into cardiac arrest with her condition! Give me the 15cc of Benzodiazepine now!"  
"Yes, Doctor. Right away."

My screams around muffled by more voices. More people, closing in on me. My nose drips as I cry, every muscle in my face tightened and aching. They're everywhere, putting straps around my arms and closing me into what feels like an isolated little box. I swear I could feel my mother there, forcing her palms down on my head.  
"No, Mommy!" I scream frantically, "Don't put me in the box! Not the box! Not the box, Mommy!"

"I need that Benzodiazepine!"  
"I got it. Here it is."

And without warning, I feel a sharp, excruciating pain rippling from the inside of my arms to the tip of my shoulder. My arm is numb and I can no longer tighten my hands into fists. It feels like I'm losing a part of my body.  
"NO!" I shriek, "NO!"

"Brittany," Says a soft voice, "Brittany, we're just trying to help you. You know that. Take a deep breath!"

I continue to resist until my body suddenly begins to feel heavy. I feel limp, drained. I open my eyes slowly, blinking as the light pieces through my eyelashes. I'm short of breath. I feel like I'd been running.  
"Not...the box." I beg, "Please. Don't let her put me in the box. Not the box, Mommy."

"Brittany," repeats the voice, "No one's going to put you in the ice box anymore. You're safe here. You mother is nowhere near here. We talked about this, remember? Everything's alright."

I breathe in, finally able to hear the beating of my own heart. I nod, looking over to the side of my bed where the voice is coming from. It's Doctor Thomas, my counselor. She is smiling.  
"Okay. Okay. I'm okay," I say breathlessly.

"Good, Brittany. Now I need to you work with me, alright? Take a deep breath...and let your mind go to a happy place. Vast meadows, sunshine, a warm breeze."

I close my eyes slowly, imagining the meadow. It's a safe place. No cars, no closed spaces, no darkness...and no ice box. Just warm, inviting, and quiet. There is no crying there. The temperature is mild and soothing. My skin tingles thinking about the sensation of a warm breeze; something I haven't felt for a while. I'm not in the hospital in my mind. I'm in the meadow.

"Excellent," cooes Dr. Thomas, "You're doing well, Brittany. Now think of the little bluebirds in the trees and light, fluffy clouds in the sky. Imagine the sounds of the birds. What do they sound like?"

I think for a moment. I think about the sounds birds made when I used to be able to go on walks. They sang little melodies as I'd pass by them, as if I was being greeted. I used to go on walks before my time in this place. I used the smell freshly cut grass and feel the wind drifting through my hair and chilling the back of my neck. It was soothing; it was _normal._

"They sound inviting," I answered, my body getting heavier and drowsier. I breathe deeply.

"Excellent, Brittany," says Dr. Thomas, "What else do you see in the meadow, Brittany?"

The meadow had tall grass that brushed delicately against my ankles. Every time I take a step, I hear nothing. Silence.

"I see the tall grass," I answered slowly, feeling as if I was drifting into unconsciousness, "And I hear nothing. Everything is..." I begin the drift, my cheek pressing deeper into my pillow, "silent."

My tongue relaxes, my eyes relax. As my body unfolds, I begin to disappear.****

**Third Person, Alvin's life:**

As Alvin turned the corner, he took out his new box of cigarettes, choosing one out of the box and pinching the end between his lips, then fished around in his pocket for his new lighter. He pulled it out and looked at it, turning it in his palms before popping the cap and skirting his thumb over the trigger. No dice. He shook the small canister a few times after it wouldn't light, then tried again until it produced a small flame. He tipped the flame toward the cigarette and inhaled, smoke escaping through his teeth.

It'd been almost a year and a half since he'd had a smoke. It wasn't something he found himself addicted to like most cigarette smokers did due to the nicotine - in fact, he thought it tasted disgusting most of the time. But he couldn't complain when cigarettes began giving him the feeling of stability. Lighting the small flame made him feel like he didn't have to keep anything for long - he had the ability to burn it if he didn't like it. When he didn't like something, he thought about how a simple flame would make it so that he didn't need to look at it anymore - the slightest spark could cause anything to crumble to dust; cease to exist. If only, he often thought to himself, if only I can light thoughts on fire so I don't have to think about them anymore.

Suddenly, there came a voice from behind, a familiar voice. Someone was running toward him from a few feet away.

"Alvin? Alvin! Hey! Wait up!

"Oh God. Kill me now," he groaned, smoke drifting out of his mouth as he sighed, "_please_...kill me."

By the high pitch of the voice, he could immediately tell who it was; it was the little chubby boy from school, Theodore. The one who constantly pestered him on a daily basis. Alvin began to walk faster, his shoulders tensed up to his ears as he shoved the lighter back into his pocket.

"Alvin! Hey! Wait! I-it's me, Theodore!" Yelled the boy. Judging by the pitter-pattering sounds, he was coming closer, desperately trying to keep up with Alvin.

"Go away," yelled Alvin back to him, "I'm busy."

Theodore went to school with Alvin and the two of them shared every class together, much to Alvin's dismay. He was short, chubby, wore green every day without exception, and always had a snack with him no matter what the occasion. To Alvin, the boy was delusional; he must've thought that Alvin enjoyed being around him, which he didn't. Not in the slightest. Theodore was a persistent boy, following Alvin to his locker, sitting with him at lunch, insisting to be his partner with every project, inviting himself over to his house, calling him on the phone, even walking him home every day! It annoyed Alvin terribly - it even made him angry. Alvin had even asked the boy several times to go away and leave him alone, but that still didn't stop him; Theodore seemed to admire Alvin. He didn't know if it was because they were both chipmunks or if he was just desperate for attention, but he seemed to think they were close friends! Dave even asked Theodore to take Alvin on walks on the weekend sometimes, even when it was rainy outside. Dave must've been brainwashed into thinking they were friends, too.

But it wasn't Theodore's friendly attributes that frustrated Alvin. The worst part about him was that he reminded Alvin of his youngest brother, Thomas, who'd passed away several years before. Much like Theodore, Thomas was chubby and enjoyed cooking on a daily basis. Also, Thomas played the drums like Theodore did and was friendly and warm - he was always accepting of everyone around him, no matter who they were. Thomas was an extreme optimist, always finding something good about everything. The fact that someone like Theodore reminded him of his deceased brother made Alvin feel ashamed of himself for comparing the two of them.

"Alvin!" The voice now came from right beside him, "whew! You are really hard to keep up with, you know that? You're fast!"

Alvin growled, not bothering to look at the small green-clad chipmunk who was chowing down on a strawberry ice cream cone.

"Alvin, why're you walking home all alone? Does Dave...I-i mean, your father know about this?"

Alvin didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the sidewalk, breathing the cigarette smoke out through his nose. Unfortunately, this wasn't a problem he could just burn away into ashes. _Maybe if I keep quiet,_ he thought, _he'll go away._

They walked in silence for a moment, then Theodore gasped, breaking the stillness, "Oh! A-alvin! You shouldn't be smoking! Do you know how unhealthy it is for your body?!"

Alvin turned his head toward Theodore, his clearwater blue eyes shooting him a deadly glare.

"I'm aware, Theodore," Alvin spat, "Can't you please just leave me alone? I'm busy today! Go away."

"Alvin, c-can you please put out that cigarette? I-it troubles me to know what could happen to you-"

"Well then if it bothers you so damn much, why don't you go away so you won't have to deal with it?!" He power-walked ahead, his feet heavily scuffing against the pavement. Theodore managed to keep up, though it was beginning to make him pant in the process.

"Alvin. A-as your friend, I have to do this. Please forgive me." Without warning, Theodore stole the cigarette out of Alvin's mouth and crushed it under his feet, leaving the contents of the cigarette to scatter within the pavement cracks.

For Alvin, that was the last straw. He was through with this guy. He growled, gritting his teeth, causing the chubby chipmunk to step back and drop his ice cream cone. He was sick of this kid. He was sick of the idea of someone he didn't like reminding him of his dear baby brother every day, he didn't approve of someone always prying into his business and invading his personal space, and he especially didn't approve of yet another person worrying about his wellbeing. Without warning, Alvin grabbed Theodore by the shirt collar and forcefully yanked him up, lifting him completely off the ground.

"YOU LITTLE SON OF A BITCH."

Theodore gasped, thrashing his feet, his eyes wide with terror, "I-i'm so sorry, Alvin! I-i just couldn't let you do that-!"

"What the hell makes you think you can just come into my life and bother me 24/7, huh, porky?! Who do you think you are?!"

"A-alvin, I-I'm sorry! P-please-!"

"Why can't you just learn to go away?! Why can't everyone just stay out of my business and leave me alone! I don't need any help!"

"Please! Please put me down-!"

Alvin shook him, "ANSWER ME, DAMMIT!"

Theodore shook his head, "I-i can't-! You don't understand!"

"Oh, you _bet_ I do, buddy! Now you better quit with the bullshit or I'll beat you black and blue, got it?!"

Theodore was shivering, tears beginning to form in his emerald green eyes.

"I SAID, _got it?!"_

The green-clad chipmunk nodded slowly, tears spilling down his cheeks. Alvin dropped his grasp on Theodore and ran off, leaving the boy to sob wildly into his hands on the pavement.

"He doesn't understand-!" Mumbled Theodore to himself, his voice quaking as he choked on sobs. He watched from afar as Alvin strode out of sight, "...h-he just doesn't _understand_!"

* * *

Alvin was all wound up now. He needed something to settle himself before doing something rash. Pulling open the door to his house, he walked into the kitchen and relaxed in the booth, pulling out his lighter to light another cigarette as he watched the clock. Dave would be home in ten minutes and would probably be furious with Alvin knowing that he walked home alone and cut his therapy session short, but ten minutes was plenty of time to smoke at least one cigarette before he would have the face the music.

Pulling the Zippo lighter and pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, Alvin began lighting another one. He didn't care if Dave smelled the smoke when he got home; all he'd have to say is that it was the smell left over from sitting in Dr. Callaway's office for an hour. Dr. Callaway smoked, too; it would be easy to blame the smell on him.

Alvin held the lighter up to the end of the cigarette butt when all of a sudden, the phone rang, startling him. He pulled out of the booth and made his way over the phone and answered it calmly, "Hello?"

"ALVIIIIIN!" Yelled Dave in his signature tone, "I just got a call from Dr. Callaway and he said that you skipped out during your session this evening!"

"Uh huh," replied Alvin apathetically. He wasn't ashamed of his decision, so he had no reason to show remorse. He didn't like therapy and that was that, "what's your point?"

"My point _is_ you're _required_ to stay in his office for the _entire_ appointment! You don't have the authority to just come and go as you please!"

"Well I AM the client!" Protested Alvin, turning the kitchen faucet on and off and looking out the window above the kitchen sink, "It's MY life he's talking about! Why should I have to sit around and let him bother me with irrelevant questions?! It's personal and uncomfortable!"

"It's _supposed_ to feel like that, Alvin! That's the whole reason why we're doing this in the_ first_ place! It's part of the process!"

"Well I don't like it, Dave! I never have! Just because he calls himself a doctor and has all of these fancy degrees doesn't mean he can just barge into my personal life and be the 'fix it' guy!"

Dave sighed, a frustrated tone resonating in his voice, "Alvin...please... Just try to live with it. It'll get better once you get everything off your chest. I mean, you'd had a lot of trauma in the past, and I think that if you just talk about it-"

"Well I don't want to, Dave. I don't-"

Suddenly, Alvin was interrupted by a familiar smell. A thick, uncomfortable smell.

"Alvin? Hello?" Dave called from the other end of the line.

Alvin heard familiar sounds. Crackling coming from somewhere in the room. _Please don't let it be what I think it is_, he thought silently. He slowly turned around, and right when he did, he dropped the phone at the sight before him.

The kitchen table was on fire. Alvin had dropped him lighter when it was still aflame and it set fire to the table. An incredible sinking feeling caused him to freeze. It was like the auditorium incident all over again.

Pretty soon, the booth caught on fire, then the wall plaster, then the hanging pictures. Alvin just stood there by the sink, paralyzed by shock. What was he going to do?! How was he supposed to explain this to Dave?!

As soon as he snapped out of his catatonic state, he immediately pulled the back door open, racing into the back yard and grabbing the hose.

"C'mon, c'mon!" He yelled to himself, desperately trying to hook the hose up to the tap next to the back porch. He needed water, and he needed it fast! The fire had already begun to spread from the kitchen into the hallway, then it was on it's way into the living room and up the stairs to the second floor. Alvin was running out of time! He would never be able to explain this to Dave without serious consequences! Or worse: what if he ends up back in the institution for something that was just an accident?

"No no no!" Screamed Alvin, giving up on the hose. He couldn't run back into the kitchen and dial 911! The house was already burning from the inside!

"Help! _ Somebody_!" He cried out hysterically, "Somebody help me!"

Alvin stood helplessly in the backyard, watching as his home - the one he'd grown up in his whole life - fell victim to the deadly flames. He crashed to his knees, his legs losing feeling as he began to have a full-on panic attack - he was losing everything he's ever known. Every memory of his lost family members - gone. Diminishing among the ashes. He couldn't watch; tears flowed rapidly over his skin and stuck to his eyelashes as he doubled over into the grass, hyperventilating. This had to be a nightmare. There was no way this could be happening!

After only five minutes, the flames had already engulfed the whole house. The wood crackled and popped as the fire took over, eating up the shutters in the windows and causing the roof shingles to topple off the roof and dive into the garden below. The garage was now aflame and the sounds of shattering glasses filled the smoke-filled air.

Memories of the accident stampeded through Alvin's mind: the heat, the feeling of shattered glass wedged into his skin, the colors red and grey- flames and smoke. Alvin screamed, rocking back and forth, squeezing his eyes shut and clamping his ear with the palms of his hands. He wanted to fade away.

* * *

**Okay guys! Thanks for reading! **

**What will happen next? What is Dave going to do when he sees what happened to the house?**

**What's wrong with Brittany?**

**Reviews are greatly appreciated and helpful! Thanks!**

**I'll be updating really soon!**

**-Blythe**


	4. The Accident and Finding Sleeping Beauty

**Hey guys! Welcome to another chapter of my (so far) depressing story! **

**First of all, I'd like to thank my beta reader, blossom2012 for helping my editing process and assisting me with suggestions. Thanks a bunches. I forgot to mention that last chapter, but I'm a dope and I forgot... hehehe. But thanks!**

**Okay guys! I think you guys will like this next chapter! Thanks for your support! It means a lot to me!**

**-Blythe**

* * *

**_Chp 4: The Accident/Discovering Sleeping Beauty_**

By the time Dave returned home, Alvin had given up on creating any kind of excuse to cover up for the mess he'd created. He'd thought of many things he could tell him: That there were too many plugs in the wall at one time, that he turned on the stove and it spontaneously caught on fire, that his hair dryer was left on, etc. The problem was, Alvin had no access to any of those things - Dave had taken all electrical privileges away since the incident with the auditorium a year and a half ago. Instead of lying, Alvin decided the best thing to do right now was come clean to avoid future consequences for lying. He told Dave about the lighter and the cigarettes and how he tried to put it out. Dave listened to Alvin's story while he watched the three fire trucks that were parked on the front lawn, hosing down whatever was left of the Seville house among the ashes. The flames had been extinguished by then and now a few firemen were investigating the ruins to see if there was anything in the house they could find that wasn't burned or damaged.

Alvin just sat motionless in the grass while Dave let loose on him, shouting at him and using his whole body to describe the immensity of the situation. Alvin began to think that if Dave lectured him any louder, he would've gone hoarse.

"Do you have ANY idea what we'll have to do _now_?! We're going to have to buy a new house and pay off the damages of this property because chances are, my insurance is probably not going to cover all this! Was it worth it to come home early, Alvin? Was it?!"

Alvin shook his head, keeping his eyes completely focused on the ground. Remorse was eating up every fiber of his being. He couldn't stand to look at the hurt in his father's eyes.

"I'm...sorry, Dave," he replied weakly, "i-it was an accident, I _swear_..!"

"Oh, an _accident_?! No, Alvin! This was no_ accident_! Houses don't burn down like this because of _'accidents!'_ Buying that lighter wasn't an accident, was it?"

Alvin shook his head slowly, cringing at his first mistake. He should have known that lighter would only lead to destruction - it always did.

Dave took a deep breath in and released it, surrendering the angry energy that'd been fueling him for the last fifteen minutes, "Alvin...do you know what this means we're going to have to do? I'm going to have to call Dr. Callaway about this. And...I think you need to go back into the psychiatric hospital for a while. For your own good."

Alvin, leapt up from the ground and immediately began to pull at his hair, his usual reaction when he feels he's being pushed into a corner. Dave's words felt like boiling water being thrown at him over and over again.

"I SAID it was an ACCIDENT!" Hissed Alvin, "_accident_ meaning I didn't _mean_ to!"

"You're the one who bought that lighter! You knew good and well that you aren't allowed to own one of those! We've been over this! You can't even use a _fork_ without my permission!"

Sadly, Dave was correct. Alvin was unfit to possess so much as a sharp pencil. Plus, his recent attitude problems and eating disorder gave Dave more reason not to trust him. The stunt he pulled with Dr. Callaway that evening was an indicator that Alvin's unwillingness to open up was getting stronger, and the frequency of his nightmares causing him to endure many sleepless nights was clearly a sign of psychological instability. Alvin was indeed very sick and needed immediate attention; he was relapsing.

It wasn't long after Dave called Dr. Callaway that the administrators at the institution were alerted about the circumstances. Alvin would need to come in first thing in the morning for personal one-on-one treatment as soon as possible. Dave drove him to the institution and promptly at 7am and checked Alvin in immediately, waiting while the doctors took down his weight, height, medical history, his past medications, psychological tendencies, drug abuse history, attitude changes, and more. It was an ailing process, to say the least. Hours and hours of paperwork needed to be filled out and filed so they could place him properly in the institution. They finished all of the paperwork and filing by 10am and spoke to Dave outside about what they were going to do for Alvin's treatment.

He could just see it now: he would need an escort at all times going from room to room, a daily search to check for harmful items in his possession, two therapy sessions a day as well as group therapy, and he would also need to be monitored in response to medications they prescribe to him in the future after determining the source of his depressive episodes. He didn't know if that was a correct assumption, but it wouldn't be far from the truth, he figured. Alvin was not happy, to say the least. If things go the way he thought they would, it would mean that there'd be people in his life all the time with no way to get rid of them.

Within the next hour, Alvin was shown to a small room on the west wing of the building. The walls of the room were tangerine, making the room seem like it was shrinking, and the carpeting was a bright white color, as if it'd just been cleaned. There was a rectangular coffee table in the middle of the room with two stacked piles of magazines and a box of tissues in the center surrounded by a red leather couch and two wooden antique chairs. In the corner was a desk piled high with folders and notebooks, a few pieces of paper drooping off of the edge and ready to spill to the ground. The trash bin next to the desk was nearly full of crumpled scraps and wrappers from foods. There weren't any windows or hanging pictures in the room, which Alvin found a bit eerie. Whoever works in here must get distracted easily, he thought.

The door opened, revealing a tall, narrow man dressed in a long, alabaster doctor's coat. He had neatly combed black and silver hair and thin spectacles with a black lens bridge that rested on the tip of his nose. Dr. Walters, read the chest pocket in navy blue cursive letters. He closed the door behind him. "Alrighty...What do we have here?" Said the man, "So...your name is Alvin...Seville?" He asked, reading off of a metal clipboard. Alvin nodded slowly, eying the box of tissues on the table.

"Oh, well howdy! I'm Doctor Walters. I'll be your new psychiatrist. Nice to meet you!" He said cordially, holding out his hand. Alvin didn't shake it. Instead, he gave the man a solid glare; Alvin detested doctors - especially psychiatrists.

"Hmm...I sense a little bit of animosity there, Alvin!" He laughed, retracting his hand and stuffing it into his coat pocket, "Let's see...so you are sixteen, have a little bit of an eating problem, and..." He adjusted his glasses, "you set fire to your own house?"

"It was an accident!" Protested Alvin, "But no one seems to believe me!"

"Uh huh... it also says here that you attempted to burn down your school's auditorium, a year and and half ago, too..."

Alvin went silent, crossing his arms and casting his gaze to the ground.

"That seems a little _rash_, don't ya think? Why don't you tell me about that?" Said Doctor Walters, seating himself in the chair across from Alvin.

"_No_. I don't want to talk about it. That was a long time ago. My life is difficult enough as it is now without bringing out the skeletons in my closet." Argued Alvin. He was pushing away, just as he always did when the subject was brought up. He was getting sick of discussing the past.

"Okay...well. Can you tell me then, Alvin, when you think your life became difficult to live? What happened to you that made you begin to do these unhealthy acts of rebellion?"

"Why? It's no one's business but my own," growled Alvin defensively.

Dr. Walters, sighed, putting his pen down on his clipboard for a minute. Being a psychiatrist in the institution meant that he needed to identify with his patients in order to help them, and he'd had a couple of resilient kids like Alvin before. Patients like him were usually the most troubled.

The doctor sighed and leaned forward in his seat, looking Alvin dead in the eye.

"Listen, Alvin. My job is to help you and hear what you have to say so that I can begin to make your life a little easier. If you don't tell me what happened that's causing you to feel grief, I can't help you. And if I can't help you, you're going to be in this place for a while. The other doctors here will try to solve your issues with shots and pills and I _doubt_ you'd want that. I'm here to help you, Alvin - to talk to you, not to poke you with needles. Do you understand?"

Alvin loosened up a little bit, but said nothing, leaning back against his seat. He was silent for several minutes.

"_Fine_." He huffed, taking a moment to think, "...It was the accident."

"Okay. Tell me about the accident. What do you remember?"

Alvin took a deep breath in, closing his eyes. He thought about the lights, about the pain and the confusion; about what he had lost.

"One night, Mom picked us up from our house and told us we were going to the grocery store."

"Who's _'we?_'"

"Me, my mother and my two younger brothers."

"What are your brothers' names?"

"Their names were Thomas and Steven"

The doctor took a moment to write that down, then he nodded.

"Okay. Go on. What happened?"

"Well, for some reason, we always had to sneak out of the house when Mom came around."

"And why's that?"

"Because..." Alvin pondered the question for a moment, "Well, Dave didn't let Mom see us sometimes. He'd only let us see her when he came with us. I don't know why. I never understood why me and my brothers didn't live with her."

"And Dave is...?"

"My adoptive father."

The doctor took more notes, crossing one of his legs over the other, "Okay. And so what happened?"

"Well, my brothers and I were excited. We loved Mom and we never spent time with her. Mom was fun and cooked for us sometimes, and told us stories about when we were babies... She loved us very much... so... we snuck out and went with her to the grocery store."

"And then what happened?"

"Well..." Alvin slumped a little more in his seat, reluctant to talk about pain the memory inflicted on him. He wished he could say he forgot, but he remembered it all too well. "We...never actually _made it_ to the grocery store. You see, Mom was driving down the road and... and we saw the headlights of a car driving towards us. We didn't think anything of it at first, but then it was approaching really fast and it was on our side of the road, s-so before it hit us, Mom tried to steer away as best as she could but..."

There was a long pause.

"But...she was too late. The car smashed into our car and...and my brothers took the hit first because they were in the backseats where the car hit us. Mom's head banged into the steering wheel and she was knocked unconscious. I was sitting in the front passenger's seat and I was the only one who came out of the experience with a couple of injuries. I had glass lodged into my skin and my eyes and mouth...and I couldn't move my arms or my legs for a long time. I kept hearing screaming and voices I didn't know..."

"And what happened to the others?" Asked Dr. Walters.

Alvin looked down at his fingers, picking at his fingernails again like he always did when he was uncomfortable, "...My brothers died upon impact...and Mom was put in a coma."

The air was empty for a moment while the Doctor stopped writing. He sensed pain in the boy's voice and stopped writing.

"Oh dear... I'm so sorry to hear that. That's absolutely horrifying."

Alvin nodded, saying no more. He was beginning to relive the experience in his mind, his skin tingling as he recalled the shards of glass stabbing through his skin. The blood. The fire. The screaming. Everything.

"And the worst part is," Began Alvin, fighting off tears, "The guy that hit us just drove away..! He just drove off like nothing happened! He had killed my family and ruined my life and it just didn't matter enough, I guess!"

The doctor was silent. Alvin was opening up more than he'd wanted to, but it seemed to just pour out of him; his emotions were finally coming to the surface.

"I didn't even get to go to my brothers' funerals," he said, his voice getting louder and more tense, "I was in the hospital for five weeks because of my stupid injuries from that accident. My neck was broken in two places, I'd broken my collarbone, two of my ribs, three of my fingers, and my right leg, but I _begged_ them to let me out so I could go to their funerals! But they wouldn't let me! That's why I _hate_ hospitals!"

The doctor came back into the conversation, "Did your father go to the funerals?"

Alvin's face was tense as he thought about Dave, "the first few weeks, he denied there ever being funerals for them. It was like he didn't even want to face the truth or something! But now whenever I ask him about it, he admits to going, but he doesn't say anything else about it! It's like he's ghosting the subject! Like he's always _hiding_ something from me!"

"What does he do that makes you think he hides things from you?"

"He doesn't give any details about the funerals or about how he felt when they died. It makes me so angry - it's like he forgot about them... or never cared in the first place."

It made Alvin's stomach turn thinking about Dave. Dave was the one who put him in here in the first place. Dave was the one who'd been keeping him from freedom. Dave wouldn't even give him the decency of believing him when he said he didn't mean to set the house aflame. But what hurt most of all was how Dave never told him about what it was like to say goodbye to his brothers. He accused Alvin of having the psychological problems, but Dave almost seemed like he was in denial when it came to talking about them.

"Alvin, what happened to your mother?"

Alvin sighed. He was getting tired of talking about the experience. It exhausted him physically and emotionally.

"She was put on life support for two and a half months. She was still unresponsive by then, so they pulled the plug. I was allowed to go to her funeral. I remember it very well."

"And what happened when you attended her funeral?"

Alvin scoffed in response, "What do you _think_ happened? I said goodbye, that's what happened! Isn't that what normally happens at funerals? A bunch of crying, a casket, people dressed in black saying goodbye?" Alvin got up from his seat, beginning to feel irritated, "Look, I don't wanna talk anymore, okay?"

Alvin didn't exactly like opening up old wounds. He usually kept far away from explaining how he truly felt about things. It didn't matter to him if it helped him by talking about it. He was just sick of people feeling bad for him all the time. He hated pity.

The doctor nodded and stood up, showing Alvin to the door, "Fair enough. How about I show you to your room so that you can have some time to yourself, hm?"

The hallways in the institution were cleaner than anything Alvin had every seen. There were no scratches on the walls, no pictures, no stained ceiling tiles or smudges on the floor. Nothing but white walls and white tiles. Each door to every room was painted a cloudy grey color and labelled number that went down from 300. Every different section of the building had a different letter representing the every wing from A to E - the wing Alvin would have to reside in was the D wing. The higher the wing letter one was assigned to, the more maintenance they required. In other words, people In the B wing were usually patients who've committed serious crimes and needed to be handcuffed when going from one place to the next.

People in the A wing were the most troubled ones of all; they required twenty-four hour surveillance and heavy dosages of medication and intensive psychotherapy. Many of the patients in that wing had been there for years - their rooms looked like apartment rooms from the inside.

Last time Alvin was here, they put him in the C wing because of his act of juvenile delinquency. He didn't care much at all for the room he was in - a bed that was secured to the floor, bars on the windows, no lights in the ceiling, two metal chair and a round metal table. They might as well have just thrown him in jail. He couldn't do much at all during his last stay. The doctors would come in and treat him like he was too young to understand big words such as "psychology" and "rehabilitation" and it made him angry. They'd also put on gloves before checking his vital signs, making him feel like he was some monster with a contagious skin disease or something. This time, he would be in the D wing, which meant he'd be in the hallway with high-functioning patients around him. There wouldn't be any bars on the windows, no anchored down beds, no doctors who were afraid of him or belittled him. Because he was on a different wing than before, he would have a whole new set of doctors.

"Well, here we are!" Announced Dr. Walters, escorting him to the room with a door that read 1D, "your room, Alvin."

Alvin stepped into the room and felt relieved; the room felt like the one he had at home. The walls were a slight olive green and there was a ceiling fan and a bay window with a pleasant view. It felt comfortable and homey. The memory foam bed seemed to sink when Alvin sat on it and there was a green and blue quilt draped neatly over it, reminding him of something he'd see in a normal house. Alvin was very pleasantly surprised.

"Does everything feel okay to you, Alvin? Do you like it?" Inquired Doctor Walters.

"Oh boy,_ do I!_" Exclaimed Alvin, satisfied with the improved decorating, "this place is so much better than the one I had before!"

"Well the one you had before on the C wing is more designed for patients who need more clinical care. Would you like me to show you the difference between levels C, D, and E?"

"Sure, but what about A and B?" Asked Alvin curiously. The doctor shook his head.

"I'm afraid I can't grant you permission to visit those levels. They required top security and I don't want to risk you getting hurt if something happens."

Alvin looked disappointedly at the ground, "Okay."

"Come with me! I'll show you around."

The doctor showed him down the E wing first, which was in a hallway perpendicular to the end of the D hallway.

"You see, Alvin, the higher up you are on the letter scale, the more medical and psychological assistance you need. Since the E wing is the lowest wing and requires minimal observation, people here don't stay for long; they're usually out within a few weeks. Wing E is for the patients who don't need medication, just therapy and time to rehabilitate. In other words, they've got one foot out the door!"

Alvin looked into each of the rooms. Some of the doors were open and there were people inside dressed like normal people dress in the outside world. Each room looked like a hotel room.

"So they can come and go as they please?" asked Alvin as he witnessed a few of the patients go in and out of their rooms.

"That is correct. They're allowed to have visitors from the outside 6am to 6pm every day. They can go wherever they want in their own wing as long as they don't cause a disturbance to any of the patients living in the other wings."

Alvin was impressed. Immediately, he began thinking about what he could do to get himself on the E wing. _ If I just listen to what they say and act like I feel better, I'll be out of here in no time!_ thought Alvin, _it'll be like I was never here to begin with!_

After the Doctor took him down the D wing, and passed Alvin's assigned room, they began to check out the C wing. As they passed a couple of doors, Alvin began to realize that the windows on the doors had gotten significantly smaller than the ones on the lower wings. He looked inside the room he'd had a year and a half before and saw the same old barred windows, anchored down bed, metal chairs and round table exactly where they all were before. In fact, he could've sworn everything was in the exact same position they were in when he left!

"This was my old room," Alvin mumbled to the doctor, "And it looks the same..."

The Doctor nodded, "It might actually be the same way it was before when you were last here. This wing isn't as full as it used to be. The C wing is the wing for the patients we aren't sure need more clinical care and therapy or less. Mostly we use it for those who've attempted to commit suicide or for those with undiagnosed problems."

"I see..." responded Alvin quietly. They began walking again until they reached the end of the hallway, then they turned around and headed back to Alvin's room.

Although it seemed like exploring a mental hospital would be interesting, Alvin really didn't see much to get excited about; the people in the wings they explored looked like regular, calm people to him. They weren't like those creepy movies where the patients had straightjackets or scuffed up hair and scarred faces. They were calm, serene; accepting of their environments.

As Alvin and Doctor Walters neared the corner, Alvin heard high-toned beeping sounds - sound like a hospital monitor getting nearer. At first, he thought it was some kind of beeper, or perhaps a smoke detector that had run out of batteries, but as it got closer, it began sounding more and more like a hospital monitor. He looked through each room window and saw nothing until he passed a room with an open door that was right around the corner from his room; room 60C. As he peered in, he was taken by surprise at what he saw.

Laying down in a hospital bed was a petite chipmunk girl with pale, paper-like skin and powder pink cheeks sleeping in what looked like a hospital bed with secured metal gates along the sides. She had silky, strawberry blonde locks that delicately draped over her shoulders and lips that resembled the color of roses, and she didn't look much younger than him. Her arms were thin and rested at her sides with wires extending from each arm, and by the way she looked, she seemed so..._breakable_ to Alvin. He stopped for a moment to look at her and wondered why she was in a mental institution instead of a hospital. His curiosity made it difficult to look away; it was like he'd found sleeping beauty.

The Doctor had noticed that Alvin had stopped walking, "What's wrong, Alvin?"

"Doctor Walters," Alvin whispered, "...what's wrong with her? Why does she have all those machines and IVs?"

Doctor Walters looked at the sleeping girl and shook his head, "Sorry, Alvin, but I'm not at liberty to say. Sorry."

Alvin was disappointed. He took a moment longer to look at her before continuing to walk to his own room.

He didn't know what it was about her, but she made him feel so curious. He wanted to wake her up and ask her what her name was, how old she was, what happened to her and why she was here instead of a regular hospital. He wanted to see what color her eyes were and hear what her voice sounded like. He wanted to experience what it was like to carry on a conversation with her. It was the strangest thing Alvin had ever felt before. It was almost uncomfortable for him - Alvin hadn't really noticed girls since before the accident. He shook his head a little, trying to push the thought away.

"Alright, Alvin!" Said Doctor Walters as Alvin returned to his room, "Get yourself settled in and I'll escort you to the dining hall for lunch, alright?"

"But I already know where the dining hall is," complained Alvin, "Can't I just go alone?"

"No, unfortunately. I'm required to escort you to the dining hall for the next two weeks as protocol. Sorry, bud."

Alvin hated it when people gave him nicknames like 'bud' and 'sport'. It made him feel like the doctors forgot how old he was.

"_Fine_." he grumbled incoherently.

The doctor was about ready to close the door when he suddenly remembered something, "Oh! And before I forget, your father insisted on giving you a peer tutor so that you don't miss out on your academics."

The news felt even worse for Alvin. Great, school. He thought for a moment that he'd finally escaped from the horrors of homework and studying. As it turns out, he was wrong. Alvin rolled his eyes, "great."

"I think you'll like him, Alvin. I believe he's about your age. He goes to a private school not too far from here and volunteers quite often and he'll be coming by tomorrow at around four in the evening to meet you. His name is..." Dr. Walter checked his clipboard.

**"Simon. Simon Blackwell."**

* * *

**Okay, guys! Thanks for reading!** **Sorry for the long chapter!**

**Who is Simon Blackwell? Who's the girl in 60C? What's wrong with her? Will Alvin ever get to talk to her? What's Dave hiding from Alvin? **

**Reviews are helpful and greatly appreciated! **

**Until next time, over and out!**

**-Blythe**


	5. The Girl in Room 60C

**Hello friend-os! Sorry for the delayed update! I was having trouble writing this week and I needed a little inspiration! **

**Now for the boy-meets-girl chapter! Yay! Excitement!**

**Hope you guys like it! (I sure enjoyed writing it!)**

* * *

**_Chp. 5: The Girl in Room 60C_******

Brittany's Point of View

I dream that I'm running. At first, I can't see anything - everything surrounding me is a black, empty void. I'm cold, frightened and alone, but in that solitude I feel a strong presence behind me. I turn around and there's nothing there - just empty blackness. I continue to run, my feet scraping a cool, marble-like surface. There's someone breathing behind me and the breathing begins to grow louder and harsher, so I try more desperately to outrun it blindly. _"DEVIL'S CHILD"_ yells a voice right behind me, "_DEVIL'S CHILD! SATAN'S DAUGHTER!"_ I do not turn around to see who it is, but it is familiar. I search frantically for somewhere safe.

Then, I become paralyzed, losing my ability to move any part of my body. Everything around me is bright. My skin feels like it's being pricked by tiny icicles and I hear the sound of a beating heart. The rhythm of the beating is slow and it has a murmuring pattern. I recognize it - it's my heart. My chest feels as thought it is caving in and I try screaming for help, but nothing comes out of my mouth. My body is stretched out flat and I'm held down by something - by fingers. They pinch me and prod me and there's a heavy pressure on my chest; it's hard to tell if the air is escaping my body or if there's something being laid heavily on my ribs. My arms and legs are then forced forward in front of my body and are bound together by an invisible restraint. I struggle to free myself from the invisible force, trying to pull my hands and feet apart with my teeth.

Then I feel a draft of concentrated, frozen air and I'm suddenly shivering. I continue to fight when the grip on my hands and feet begins to tighten, beginning to make me lose feeling in my fingers and toes, causing them to turn blue. Snow begins to form from under me and I feel a wall of ice behind me as I try to lean back. I struggle with my bound arms and legs, failing to break free as the room begins to get smaller and smaller until it can barely fit my body at all. The temperature continues to drop until I can't open my eyes without them stinging. My mouth closes when I begin to lose feeling in my tongue and my lungs struggle to expand or contract; I'm suffocating.

That's when the voices come.  
_Brittany,_ says a voice, _Brittany. Where is she? Where's Brittany?_  
_We're running out of time!_ Says a different, frantic voice.  
_She's here_. _She's in here_, says another voice.  
I hear the sound of banging - metal against metal. The sound startles me and I cower from it, rolling to my side. The sound keeps getting more violent and deafening. It's beginning to shake the walls.

There's suddenly a terrifying CRACK! I scream and rebel with every ounce of strength I have left when there are hands all over my body again. My arms and legs are released and warmth rushes over my skin. I feel a tepid shower of rain on my skin as my arms and legs gain consciousness again and I collapse to the ground in exhaustion. My eyes slowly close. The last thing I see before I fade out is the color peach - the color I see through my eyelids when my eyes close in sensitivity to bright lights.

* * *

**Third Person, Alvin's life**

Alvin awoke at 8:15 on a Saturday to the familiar smell of sausage biscuits. His mouth salivated - Dave used to make them for him every morning on the weekends back before Alvin had gotten used to skipping breakfast and going without food throughout the day. It was a familiar, comforting smell. It made Alvin think he was back at home for a moment.

He slowly arose from his bed, kicking his legs over the side and stretching his arms over his head. This would be his first full day in the institution, and it seemed to be starting out great. This was the first night in months that he'd gone to sleep and didn't have the nightmare. He surprisingly got a full nine hours of sleep and he woke up feeling refreshed. This was a good sign. Alvin was going to seize the day.

With a new feeling of determination, he pulled on his red T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, not bothering to comb his hair before putting on his signature red cap. The aroma of savory sausage biscuits made it impossible for him not to think about his stomach - he was actually feeling quite hungry. He hadn't wanted to eat a decent meal for weeks, so it was curious how his appetite was suddenly drawing him toward the dining hall. He figured that since he wouldn't take long to eat breakfast, there wouldn't be any harm in going to the dining hall alone without his escort. He knew where it was anyway, so there was really no reason for him to require a person to sit there and watch him eat. An escort wasn't necessary. He'd be back in no time.

He slipped on his socks and sneakers, sitting on the bed and bending down to tie his shoelaces when he suddenly heard clanging. It was the sound of something metal moving hastily against another metal object. He peered around his room, checking for any source of the noise. Perhaps it was the air conditioning turning on? It was quite balmy outside for the usual Los Angeles climate, so it wouldn't come as a surprise. He checked the air conditioner. No dice. It was running just fine.

The clanging sound continued and became more and more frequent. Alvin stood up, going to the window and looking around outside. Maybe they were doing some construction outside that was causing a ruckus; like replacing a telephone wire or digging up a metal pipe from underground. After closer inspection, there was nothing going on outside at all in the courtyard.

He moved away from the window and headed for the door, forgetting about the sound and readying himself to get some breakfast from the dining hall. Just as he opened the door, the clanging seemed like it was even louder. It was coming from the hallway.

Alvin exited his room, annoyed. Who would do construction work inside the institution at this hour? It's probably waking everyone else up! He thought.

He started down the hall towards the dining room and turned the corner. If they were going to decide to do work on the hospital, so be it. It wouldn't bother Alvin while he was chowing down on his sausage biscuit. By the time he came back, he figured it would probably be over.

The noise persisted, causing Alvin's curiosity to get worse. He stopped walking for a moment and turned around, heading toward the sound of the clamors. His patience was wearing thin; whoever was doing this was being inconsiderate and he planned to confront them - and when Alvin confronted someone, he made sure they never forgot it.

He passed his room and turned the corner that lead down the C hallway.

When he saw the source of the clanging, he immediately halted.

On the tiled floor of the hallway sat the girl from 60C - the girl he marvelled over a day before. She wore a grimace and a long, silky pink nightgown with white lacing around each sleeve and pearl buttons going down the center. She was leaning against the doorframe outside of her room. As Alvin looked closer, he was taken aback - she was handcuffed to a vertical pipe on the outside of her room. She forcefully drew her hand away from the pipe and created the sound again and again as she struggled to release herself from the handcuffs. Alvin had never seen anything like this before.

"Um... Excuse me?" confronted Alvin, "Why are you handcuffed to that pipe?"

* * *

**Third person, Brittany's life**

"Um... Excuse me? Why are you handcuffed to that pipe?" Said an unfamiliar voice nearby. Brittany stopped struggling and turned her head in the direction of the inquirer. He was standing before her, one of his hands in a side pocket of his black sweatpants. He was a new face around these parts and he didn't look much older than her - he was medium height, a bit tanned and didn't have much muscle on him. He wore a red cap over his head of unkempt, sandy-auburn hair and his baby blue eyes met hers for a moment before they returned to watching her restrained hand.

She ripped her gaze away, returning to her usual nature of obstinance. She didn't care if he was around here or not. She was on a mission and it wasn't any of his business.

"Nothing _you_ need be concerned with," she snubbed coldly.

"Well whatever you're doing, it's creating an awful lot of ruckus," he replied sourly, "Don't you know that it's 8am? People are still asleep at this time!"

"Good!" She retorted, "Then _everyone_ can hear me."

"What on Earth would you accomplish by irritating everyone?" He seemed to be teasing her. Brittany was not amused; she wasn't one who enjoyed teasing.

"If you must know, I'm protesting." She stated matter-of-factly, "And it doesn't concern _you_, so run along."

"Protesting what?" Inquired the boy, leaning against the wall. He was enjoying himself. Brittany grew agitated.

"I'm protesting against the faculty for the conditions of my room. I feel like I'm being treated unfairly. I've been here for three years, so I feel like I should have more say in the conditions I live under."

Without warning the boy walked passed her and strolled casually into her room, scoping out the interior as if he was searching for clues, "Why? I don't see anything in here that looks too _tormenting..._"

"Wha-?! Get _OUT_ of there!" She scolded, "Who said you could go into my room?!"

He looked in her closet, then her bathroom, then circled behind the door to see if anything was hidden behind there. He inspected the ceiling, the side table with an empty flower vase, the hinges of the closets, the pillows on her bed, the wallpaper...

"Hmm...nice bathroom, nice wallpaper, pleasant atmosphere, comfortable sheets..." He mumbled to himself.

"Hey! I'm talking to you! Hey! I said_ GET OUT!"_

"Well, you said the conditions of the room weren't acceptable, so I was just curious..."

He continued wandering her room, checking under her bed, looking behind her monitors, peering out the window, "Wow! Nice view! But I think mine's better..."

Brittany huffed, "So your intrusive curiosity gives you a license to snoop around other people's private quarters? I could get you in trouble for this!"

He slowly made his way back to the door, taking his time with both hands in his pockets. When he got outside the door, he squatted down to her eye level.

"I don't see anything in there that gives you an appropriate reason to disturb the entire wing with that noise."

"Why you...!" She growled, "You obviously don't understand and I'm _not_ going to point it out!"

"I don't see anything that justifies acting like a two year-old." He said blankly. The hair on the back of Brittany's neck stood up.

"The point _wasn't_ to make noise," she murmured peevishly, "It was to stay out here until they come and fix the problem. Because I'm anchored here, I refuse to unlock myself until they agree to my conditions."

"What conditions? I still don't see what's to fuss about."

"You don't feel how_ freezing_ it is in there?!" She exclaimed, revealing her dilemma, "I feel like I'm getting frostbite just _breathing the air_! It's _supposed_ to be _summertime!_"

"Yeah, exactly. It's summertime. The air conditioner's on. It's to keep everyone else in the building from melting into a puddle!"

"Well I'm not like everyone else in the building!" She declared, "I'm cold and-!"

"It's really not cold at all in there! It's 75 degrees fahrenheit! That's normal. Put on an extra layer of clothes and problem solved!"

"The room temperature isn't _all_ I'm complaining about!" She hissed, "It's the fact that I'm not allowed to go outside and I'm stuck in this cold building freezing to death! I want to go outside during early summer! It's gardening season and I'm stuck in here looking at white walls and blank ceilings! It isn't_ fair_! I'm not even able to open my window! How would YOU like decaying in the same God-forsaken room for three years?!"

He was testing her patience and it was getting under her skin. He didn't seem to be fazed at all by her outburst. She paused, breathing in impatiently, "Why don't you just leave me alone, huh? Mind your own business, _buster!_"

"Whoa whoa, hey hey..." halted the boy, "My name is not buster, sweetheart."

"Don't call me sweeth-"

"Okay, whatever. Girl of 60C. First of all, my name is not '_buster',_ it's Alvin. And second of all, mind keeping it down? There are others around here who'd like to live in peace. Like me, for example."

She said nothing for a moment, her pallid complexion interrupted by a pink blush. If she wasn't restrained to a pipe, she would've shoved him away from her immediately. But since she put herself in this predicament, she was going to stand by it, despite the fact she was rendered immobile.

"Okay, okay. _Fine._ Just go away."

"As you wish, 60C," grumbled the boy, "See ya around." He turned the corner and disappeared.

She began drawing invisible pictures on the ground with her finger, "Yeah, yeah..."

**Third person, Alvin's life**

"That oughta shut her up," Mumbled Alvin to himself on his journey to the dining hall, satisfied with his successful confrontation.

* * *

****After breakfast, Alvin made his way back to his room. It was now 8:45 and the halls were quiet. There was an eerie silence that he was no stranger to - he could recall the last time things were quiet like this: it was back when he lived on the C wing. Everything on the C wing was quiet and controlled. Alvin used to hate 'quiet and controlled', but now he rather preferred it over anything else. It was soothing - it gave his head some peace to concentrate on each individual thought that passed through his mind. Even in his empty house back on 66 Cedar Drive he never felt this astute.  
He crossed down the hall, about to turn the corner until he passed 60C. The girl from before wasn't outside her door like she was an hour ago, but her handcuffs were laying on the ground, still attached to the pipe. He peered curiously into the room in search of the girl. She was sitting in her bay window, looking dejectedly out the window at the peony plant just outside, her body attached to the wires of her monitors and IVs as they were yesterday. Her fingers grazed the window glass as if she wanted to reach out of the window and pick a few flowers for herself. Alvin wondered when she had last been outside - with all those wires and tubes attached to her all the time, she must never have the chance to get fresh air, and it didn't help that her windows were barred shut. She looked miserable.  
It was then when Alvin began to feel a pang of remorse for antagonizing her so much earlier - he'd forgotten about how different her conditions were than his. HE wasn't the one with machines attached to him. HE hasn't been here for as long as she had. He was in the D wing, she was in the C wing. Their lives were very different.  
As he watched her, he thought about earlier - about the way she first looked at him. Her porcelain skin and lustrous strawberry blonde hair contrasted greatly in color and brought out the rose tone of her pouting lips. Nothing was out of place on her at all - she looked perfectly groomed and unblemished - like a doll, which wasn't something Alvin saw every day; especially not in a psychiatric ward. Her voice - although high pitched - was clear and feminine, making the words that came out of her mouth sound like they were prettier than they were being spoken by anyone else.

And, oh, those_ incredible_ caribbean-blue eyes! She could've easily hypnotized him right then and there with her eyes if they weren't so frozen with contention.

The way her face was so perfectly proportioned rendered him speechless until she opened her mouth to speak to him so argumentatively, and even though she turned out to be hot-headed and stubborn, she still managed to strike intrigue in him with her unusual features. He found that it was fun to tease her, yes, but he wished that he could've done a better job striking up a conversation with her rather than making her angry. She was interesting... and he probably just ruined his chances of ever getting to speak to her again. She most likely wouldn't want to speak to him.

_"I've been here for three years,"_ her voice repeated in his head. Three years. That's a long time to be stuck in a facility like this.

_"I'm not even able to open my window! How would YOU like decaying in the same God-forsaken room for three years?!"_

In that moment, he felt remorseful. He wished there was some way he could've been a little more cordial instead of making her feel like he was intrusive by invading her privacy. But of course, that was Alvin. The old, confident Alvin. He didn't want to lose his new sense of heightened self esteem...

Alvin shook his head. Why was he feeling bad? He did everyone a favor by making her quiet down this morning. He looked back at the girl who was looking down at her lap, a reserved expression on her face. _She's probably some spoiled brat looking for attention or something,_ he thought scornfully, _she's been here for three years because she's reckless and ill-behaved. It's nothing I should be concerned with._

With that new judgement, he passed by her door and rounded the corner into his room. It was now time for him to get prepared for his group therapy session at 9:00.

****Since Alvin had a little time before group therapy, he decided he'd check out the view from his window. His window had a wide view of the center of the courtyard, which meant he probably had one of the best views in the institution. Within his view was a well-groomed area of turf grass with a colorful perimeter of petunias, pansies, irises, cherry blossom trees... You name a flower and it was probably there. He'd never seen so many different shaped flowers in such a concentrated space! It looked like a garden somebody would see in a gardening magazine!

As Alvin scanned the garden, he noticed there was a large peony plant just outside of the window next to his. His gaze moved from the marvelous scenery to the his neighbor's window. Since the window was right around the corner from his, he could practically see everything in the neighbor's room through the glass. At closer inspection, he noticed that the window belonged to none other than the girl from 60C. He took a moment to re-examine her features. Even though she was further away now, she looked as sad as she did when he passed her room just minutes before. In fact, she looked worse; she was crying. He watched as big tears rolled from the corners of her eyes down to the tip of her chin. She seemed to be staring out of her window in longing of the garden she was forbidden to see. It made Alvin's chest feel heavy with sympathy. The garden probably meant more to her than he realized. Alvin began to feel guilty.

"Alright, Alvin. Time for group therapy!" Said a voice belonging to Dr. Walters. Alvin didn't hear him; he was too distracted. She looked so depressed. No wonder she rebelled; to put her in a room with a view so close to the courtyard without giving her access to go outside sounded just cruel. No wonder she was so unhappy with her conditions - it was like putting a dog on a short leash and hanging a steak in front of its face; it seemed so unfair.

"Hello? Alvin? _Alvin!_" Repeated Dr. Walters loudly, catching Alvin off-guard.  
He whirled around to see Dr. Walters leaning against the doorframe. Immediately, he shoved away from the window and pretended not to be staring at the pretty girl next door.  
"Ready for group therapy, Alvin?"  
"U-uh yeah! I'm all ready!" The red-clad boy assured, nervously adjusting his hat. The doctor laughed at his suspicious behavior and walked to the window, looking out.  
"What have you been looking at that's got you so fascinated?" Asked Dr. Walters curiously.  
"Nothing!" Interjected Alvin, "J-just the flowers! The garden is um...really nice! So u-uh... sh-shall we get going?"  
The doctor's head turned slowly to the left in the direction Alvin seemed to be looking in and spotted the girl in the nearby window.  
"Ah ha! I see what it is you've been gawking at! She's a cutie, isn't she?"  
"Who is? I don't know what you're talking about!" denied Alvin, his face gaining a shade of red.  
"Brittany from 60C! You were looking at her, weren't you?"  
Alvin looked away, pretending to ignore him. His face was beginning to feel warm. _Brittany._ The girl's name was Brittany. What a pretty name...and it seemed to fit her.  
"You know, I once was a teenaged boy too, Alvin. You can't fool me!" Jested the doctor, patting him on the head. He then cleared his throat, checking his clipboard, "Alright. Ready to go?"  
"Yes, I am," grumbled Alvin, staring at the floor tiles in denial of his embarrassment. He didn't like people bringing attention to things he was too flustered to admit - especially this kind of thing. _I wasn't looking at her... I was just...noticing that she was...within distance of my room, that's all,_ Alvin reassured himself. Surely her unusual good looks had nothing to do with it.  
..Right?

* * *

**Alrighty. The two have met! They're off to a bad start, but they've met!**

**So how will things end up between the two of them? Will Alvin end up talking to her?**

**Also, what will Simon Blackwell be like? (He's in the next chapter, promise!)**

**Reviews are helpful and extremely appreciated! Thank you, thank you, thank you!**

**Until next time, over and out!**

**-Blythe**


	6. Mysterious Scars

**Yo, Friend-os! **

**Sorry for the late update! School's coming up and I've been really busy with things! **

**And for those of you reading my other stories, I'll be posting the updates on those soon as I can! I'm working on several things at once as well as a few new fanfics and a one-shot! Exciting things are in the future, my friends! :D**

**Anyway, hopefully you guys enjoy this one as much as the others! Things are getting more and more interesting! ;)**

**Hope you like!**

**-Blythe**

* * *

**Chp 6: Mysterious Scars******

The halls of ward D seems to be brewing with activity as Alvin walked closely behind Dr. Walters. Doors were opening and closing, people in each room were being escorted by people in physician's coats to close locations, and there were even a few people that seemed to be following them. Perhaps they were in the group therapy session Alvin was in?  
Whatever the case, Alvin had never actually seen anybody come in or out of the D hallway besides himself, so it was overwhelming seeing all of these people emerging from their rooms at the same times - it made him feel like he lived in the midst of moving cogs in the mechanics of a clock.  
"Where are all these people going?" Asked Alvin, "Is everyone on the same time schedule?"  
"Actually, Alvin," Replied the doctor, "A lot of these patients are going to be joining us for group therapy. You'll be meeting lots of new people today!"  
The red-clad boy huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. This was bad news.

Alvin wasn't happy about the new arrangement for him to get group therapy. The thought of sitting in a room full of people with mental issues and sob stories nauseated him - what was the purpose? All anybody ever does at these things is cry about their problems and share their testimonies about how miserable their existences were before their time at the ward. It was counterproductive, in Alvin's opinion. What if someone in the group told a haunting story that ended up scaring another member of the group? What if someone says something about what they did to get in here and another patient gets inspired and decides to do the same? How well is group therapy actually thought out?

These new realizations haunted Alvin; perhaps he should tell the doctor that he doesn't feel like it's a good idea. Maybe the doctor will reconsider his placement in the institution once he sees that Alvin's trying to advocate for himself. If so, relocation could mean him being put in the E wing. E wing means freedom to do whatever you please. It means not being limited to just the C, D, and E hallways and being allowed to do what you want. The E wing was his ticket out of this horrible place. No therapy groups, medications, or intensive psychiatric treatments. Freedom.

Dr. Walters and Alvin turned the corner at the end of the C wing and entered a room that was the size of a small exercise space - the place had shiny Kempas hardwood floors and padded, soundproofed walls that, once again, held no pictures. It looked like it had once been a gymnasium, but it was eventually turned into a community center for holding group therapy sessions after it most likely didn't pass the construction codes required for mental hospitals. Along the walls were chair racks where patients were noisily taking down chairs to unfold and sit on in a semi-circle fashion facing the entrance. When Alvin examined the floor by his feet, he noticed there were black skid mark stains scattered about from someone's sneakers and he could still see spots on the floor where someone had carelessly ripped up the boundary tape during remodelling.

When Alvin looked back up, he realized he was being watched by a sea of about thirty pairs of unfamiliar eyes. His stomach did a flip.  
"Ladies and Gents, this is Alvin. He just checked in yesterday."  
The room stirred as people leaned toward each other and whispered. The doctor cleared his throat and waited until silence was restored to the room.  
"Anyway, I'd like you all to give him a warm welcome. He'll be joining us for our next few sessions," Dr. Walters peered down at Alvin whose face couldn't get more flushed. Alvin hated this kind of attention; it was the awkward feeling of being the new kid on the block. He was the shiny new toy - target practice for mockery and childlike taunting. He remembered that feeling from when he came here the first time.  
"Alvin, would you like to say something?"  
The boy shook his head and frantically searched for a place to go where he'd be out of the spotlight. His fingers were beginning to twitch and he was desperately hoping no one noticed.  
"Okay, Alvin. Take a seat, please. We're going to begin now."  
Alvin nervously shuffled through the rows of spectators, looking around for a vacant place to sit. When he was finding no chairs available, he made his way to the very back so that he may stand instead. He didn't mind standing for an hour or so - he'd rather be on his feet for a while rather than causing a commotion by taking out a chair from the rack.  
Before he reached the back of the room, he suddenly heard a soft voice calling out to him, "Hey! Excuse me? You can sit here!"  
Alvin whirled around in search for the voice that was calling for him. It was a familiar voice that belonged to an unfamiliar girl: she was sitting in the very last row, patting an empty seat next to her for him to sit down. The girl was somewhat plump, wearing an olive green dress with white-laced lining, smiling widely with strawberry toned lips and puffy pink cheeks. She had little blonde pigtails and chocolate brown eyes that were wide and staring up at him in wonder. Alvin carefully took a seat next to her.  
"Hi!" She greeted, "My name's Eleanor Fitzgerald, but you can call me Ellie."  
"Um...h-hi Ellie. I'm Alvin." He responded apprehensively. He didn't know if he was too comfortable with eager people like her. When it came to social capabilities, Alvin wasn't too keen on meeting just anybody he came in contact with. The same could not be said seven years ago since Alvin practically lived his whole life in the social buzz back then. Nowadays, he was quite shy compared to his old self.  
"Hello, Alvin!" The girl chirped, "How funny! My friend Teddy has a big brother named Alvin whom he speaks very fondly of! You don't happen to have a little brother named Teddy, do you?"  
Alvin shook his head slowly.  
"Oh, well then it must just be a popular name!" She said sweetly, folding her hands on her lap, "So which wing are you on?"  
"I'm on wing D," he answered slowly, putting his hands in his pockets, "A-and you?"  
"I'm on the C wing! I've been here for almost a year now!"  
Alvin nodded, looking down to the floor. As his eyes travelled downward, he noticed there were thick, white bandages braced around each of Ellie's wrists underneath the cuffs of her shirt. It took him awhile to process what that meant - it was clear why she was on the C wing and not the high functioning D or E wings. The girl caught him looking at the bandages and immediately pulled down her sleeves, clearing her throat and beginning a new subject.  
"So...have you ever been to one of these meetings?" She asked.  
Meanwhile, Alvin's gaze hadn't moved away from her wrists.  
"Alvin?"  
"Hm?" He said, blinking a few times before looking up at her. He suddenly felt like he knew too much about her than what he was comfortable with.  
"I said, have you ever been to one of these meetings?"  
"Not...really," he replied, keeping his eye contact with her to a minimum. He leaned forward in his seat and took off his hat, nervously bending the ridge with his fists. Ellie examined his face and sat back in her seat, trying to figure out where it was she'd seen him before.  
"Have we met before?" She asked, tilting her head. There was something about this boy...something she'd seen before. But she couldn't quite put the pieces together. Alvin's eyebrows pulled together as he processed her question.  
"I don't think so, why?"  
"N-nothing..." she said in the midst of serious thought, "You just...it's just that you look so familiar... Were you here last June?"  
"No... I haven't been here for a year and a half."  
"When were you last here then? Like, what month and year?"  
"November of 1992, why?" asked Alvin. He moved away from her slightly as she began to lean towards him. He now wished he'd chosen to stand in the back.  
"Oh. Nevermind then..." She sighed, "it's just that...forget it."

Fifteen minutes went by and Alvin's mind was scattered - it was hard to pay attention to anything going on in the front of the room. Dr. Walters had an easel and a large drawing pad and was writing down what looked like some kind of chart. From where Alvin was sitting, he couldn't see anything that was being written at all, nor could he hear what was being said. He looked at Ellie, who was looking down at her feet and clicking her heels together, making a soft tapping sound.  
"Are we supposed to be taking notes?" He asked her. She shook her head.  
"Nope. All we have to do is sit and listen!"  
"Well, can you hear what he's saying?"  
Ellie laughed, "Nope! I never do!"  
Alvin leaned back in his seat again, outstretching his legs. He looked at his wrist where his watch usually was, but then he remembered that they'd taken the watch when he was checked in a few days ago. His wrist felt naked; stripped. And that wasn't the only thing that felt odd - he also felt strange being in this hospital again. The air was so much different than back at home. It was...lighter; the air in his house on Cedar Drive was so concentrated and thick. When he lived with Dave, he felt like at any moment, Dave would get up and walk out, leaving him alone in an empty space that was far too big for just himself. The feeling of spatial loneliness was heavier and more unbearable than the thought of being surrounded by strangers.

Alvin began to remember a time when he was ten when Dave had taken him to the annual town fair in an attempt to make him feel better a few months after his mother had just been taken off of life support. It was one of Alvin's most vivid memories aside from the accident - there were so many lights and noises around him. The festive cycloramas of blue, red and yellow lights flashed and danced around him, making him feel small as he pushed through the crowd of carnival goers. The carnival music from the merry-go-round played endless classical melodies as the mechanical horses bobbed up and down and there was a booming "BAM" and a "CLANG" of the high strikers next to the game booths and prize pits. Alvin's nose was sensitive to the many smells and tastes in the carnival air - the pungent aroma of fried dough and cotton candy could be smelled from miles away, and if you opened your mouth, you could even taste the candied caramel-coated popcorn. And all those people that swarmed in crowds around him - they came to take part in blowing their money on a one-time memory.

Even though he and his brothers used to go to the carnival every year, it felt so foreign to him without them. He'd never felt so alone in all his life. His brothers weren't here anymore, so there was no point in going this time around. Did Dave really think that going to the carnival was going to fill the empty void of two lost siblings? Did Dave even think about the emptiness at all?

Before Alvin had time to think adversely about his adoptive father, a few outbursts interrupted his thoughts.

"Hey, look who it is! It's the Ice Queen!"

"Ice Queen! Why're you so late?"

"Look who finally decided to show up! Ice Queen!"

"Hey there, Queenie! Have you made anyone cry today?"

Alvin turned his attention to the doorway across the room. It was her - the girl from 60C; the girl named Brittany. She was being escorted through the door in a wheelchair by two nurses: one was assisting with her oxygen and her IVs, and the other one wheeled her in. Brittany was looking down at the floor, her face deep red from embarrassment. Alvin nudged Ellie as people continued to jeer at the girl.

"Why are they calling her the Ice Queen?" He whispered.

Ellie glanced around her to see if anyone was eavesdropping, then she leaned over and replied softly, "She's one of the most infamous patients in this institution."

"Why?"

"Well...I heard that she got in here after trying to lock herself in one of those industrial sized freezers five years ago when she was eleven. She was on the C wing for the first year she was here, but then they put her in the A wing immediately when she went haywire one day and chucked a bunch of silverware at her assisting nurse. I hear she's the youngest patient in the building to ever be put in the A wing. I also heard she was put in the quiet room once!"

"Wow. Really?" Alvin was astonished. He'd never seen someone so disturbed in person before, "Wait...why did she lock herself in a freezer?"

"Some say she was trying to kill herself," Ellie decreased the volume of her voice drastically, "You see, her mother used to lock her in an ice box when she was little. The police found her nearly frozen to death in her mother's freezer when she was six. It was all over the news a back then, so it's no secret. I guess it really messed her up. She's been in and out of this place ever since."

"That's...that's absolutely horrifying," Alvin mumbled. He felt his chest gradually cave in at the thought of her as a six year-old little girl being frozen in an ice box. She must've suffered from severe post traumatic stress issues after that. It wouldn't be a surprise knowing the amount of pain the experience put her through - it probably explained why she looked so fragile.

"Is that why she looks so sick?" He asked, keeping his eyes on the girl's strawberry blonde hair. The poor thing looked more and more sickly every time he looked at her.

"I think so, yes. I wouldn't be surprised if that experience caused her to have severe developmental issues. Hypothermia can really do some damage on a six year-old's body and brain."

"Yeah..." Alvin watched as someone threw a ball of paper at her. She didn't flinch.

"...why is everyone being so mean to her?"

"Well... she never usually acts like this. In fact, she's usually mean and disruptive during group therapy. I guess something happened that's making her quieter today..."

Alvin nodded, "I-i guess..."

He realized that he was feeling something different toward the girl, something he never really felt toward anyone - sympathy This must've been what it felt like to everyone else when they heard about his own story - about the accident and his own losses. It was a terrible, guilted feeling that made it hard for him to swallow. This was the girl he'd lectured this morning - the girl who he'd intruded on and called an immature child. She was sitting motionless in the wheelchair making no sound, no movement... and she looked positively miserable. He wished she'd look up for a moment just so he could see those penetrating blue eyes of hers beneath her long, raven-black eyelashes. All he wanted was her to look up just once...but she wouldn't.

Ellie began to notice that Alvin was staring at Brittany.

"Have...you two met before?" she inquired curiously. Alvin's gaze didn't move away.  
"Hm? Um...well, yeah. Her room's just around the corner from mine." he said, playing it as cool as he could. He wished he could push out of his mind what had happened earlier, but it bothered him knowing that he potentially just ruined her day. Even seeing her get angry would look better than watching her like this.

"Oh, well good luck," laughed Ellie, "I hear she has fits _every_ night. It wakes everyone up. You might want to ask Dr. Walters about moving to a room further down the D wing to avoid getting woken up at 2am...!"

"Okay," acknowledged Alvin, not paying any of his attention to Ellie. The fact was, Alvin didn't want to move to a room further away from the girl. He didn't know what it was about her, but she was...different. She was an enigma; a jigsaw puzzle with several missing pieces that he was still interested in putting together; a doll with torn stitches that he wished he could sew back together...

A mystery that he wanted to _solve._

**_Later:_**

Things seemed to wind down by lunch time after Alvin had spent most of his day jumping around from therapy session to therapy session. His schedule was a jumbled mess of meetings ranging from physical therapy to emotional support therapy and since he seemed to be scheduled around the clock, he never truly had time to settle into his room yet. It was now 4pm and Alvin's jaw was starting to ache from all the talking he'd been doing that day. It was time to retire for a while in room 1D.

Entering his room, Alvin immediately decided that he would sit in his window for a few minutes to cool down. It felt good to be able to look out of his window and see the brilliance of colors below him: the variety of flowers, bushes, and trees that were planted in the courtyard contrasted nicely with the healthy patches of grass that surrounded them. Everything was so vivid and elegant. He didn't remember ever seeing a garden that was so well nurtured as this one - someone must have really cherished it for it to look this perfect.

Alvin looked through the window of 60C, hoping to find the girl who resided there looking out at the garden like she had been earlier, but she wasn't there. The lights were off and he couldn't see anything in her room through the darkness. He was disappointed.

She's probably still in therapy, he thought, looking around to the other neighboring windows. No one seemed to be looking out their windows that evening.

Suddenly, there came an unexpected knock at the door followed by a familiar voice.

"Hello? Alvin?" said the voice. Alvin turned to the direction of the voice to see a young man around his age standing before him, a textbook and a couple of folders clutched in one arm and a notebook in the other with a navy satchel hanging from his shoulder. He had large, circular, thick-framed glasses and a blue button-down shirt that was tucked into his jeans, revealing that he was narrowly framed and most likely taller than Alvin, and he had stony blue eyes that matched the color of the buttons descending down his shirt. There was something hauntingly familiar about this boy: he had remarkable similarities to Steven, Alvin's younger brother. Tall, skinny, glasses, blue-eyes...

_Steven_? Alvin thought silently,_ No...it can't be..._

"Hello, Alvin." said the boy, "My name's Simon. Simon Blackwell. I'm your peer tutor."

Alvin shook hands with the boy, trying not to show his disappointment. He looked so much like Steven, but it wasn't him. It couldn't be and Alvin knew it - Steven was dead.

"Hi, Simon. Nice to meet you." said Alvin politely, pasting on a false smile. Simon seemed distraught by Alvin's response.

"So you still don't remember me...that's okay, I guess." he mumbled, setting up a workstation on the table. This puzzled Alvin; what was he supposed to remember about this guy? Had they met before? If so, Alvin couldn't recall...

"I'm not sure what you mean-"

"So today, I think I'll just be informing you of the things you missed at school during your absences." Interrupted Simon, pulling two chairs over to the table, "does that sound good?"

"Mhm," Alvin agreed hesitantly, watching as Simon took a binder out of his satchel.

"Okay. I'm going to be recording our lessons so that I can assess your academic strengths and weaknesses as we go along, alright? This will help me determine the best way to teach you terms and certain topics without you getting confused."

While Simon spoke, Alvin discovered something odd about Simon's face: at a closer glance, Simon had severe scarring of the skin tissues under his eyes and on his eyelids. He also seemed to have hair follicle discoloration on both of his eyes - his eyelashes and parts of his eyebrows were an unnatural white color instead of the sandy, light brunette color of his hair. It was one of the most peculiar things Alvin had ever seen on a person. Perhaps Simon suffered from a serious skin condition?

Then Alvin caught something that disturbed him most of all - Simon had a huge, diagonal scar that ran from the base of his right ear up to the right side of his forehead and it seemed to cave slightly into his face. It was one of the most ghastly scars Alvin had ever seen on anybody. It looked like whatever had happened to him required serious stitches - like he'd bashed his head open or had a serious fall. Simon looked perfectly normal from a safe distance, but up close, his face looked like a retired war zone.

"Um, Simon?" Said Alvin, diffidently interrupting Simon's spiel on memorization tactics, "I know we just met, but...can I ask you something?"

Simon seemed hopeful, putting his pen down on the table, "Uh-huh! Go right ahead."

"Okay...um... How did you- I mean...what happened to your face?" asked Alvin, feeling quite nosy and obtrusive. It was never in Alvin's nature to be so forward with someone he'd just met, even during the days when he was younger and outgoing! But the curiosity plagued him - he didn't know if he could be taught anything if he was too busy staring at the scars on Simon's face.

Simon stirred uncomfortably in his seat like he was carefully considering something in his mind. After a minute or so, he gave a polite smile.

"Let's just call it...a little misunderstanding."

* * *

**Okay you guys! Thanks for reading! **

**So what is medically wrong with Brittany? What did Eleanor do to end up in the institution? Why does Eleanor recognize Alvin? What are Simon's scars from? **

**Reviews are helpful and very appreciated, trust me!**

**Until next time, over and out!**

**-Blythe**


	7. Hide and Seek

**Hey Guys! Sorry for the late update! School and junk. Y'know how it is.**

**So I hope you all like this chapter. The plot is thickening. Everything is going according to my dastardly plan! ):D**

**Mwahaha.**

**Hope ya like!**

**-Blythe**

* * *

_**Chapter 7: Hide and Seek**_

**Alvin's Point of View:**

My eyes shot open, jolting awake to the sound of glass shattering and frantic, wild screaming. It sounded as if someone's hair was being ripped out...or like someone was being burned alive; it was petrifying. I could hear hinges squeaking and the sound of clanging metal. Someone was thrashing about - fighting.  
I hauled myself out of bed and opened the door to my room, trying to find the source of the panic. It was a girl's voice; a familiar, feminine tone. Immediately, I rushed to my window and peered out through the droplets of rain to room 60C, that 'Brittany' girl's room. As I expected, the lights were on and she was standing by her window. Her face was disturbed, her hair was ratty and tangled and she was pacing, her fingers gripping her arms intensely. She was talking to someone... or maybe she was just talking to herself. I moved closer to the window, looking to see if there was someone else there she was talking to, but I saw nobody. No shadows, just her. I kept a close watch on her until I heard the screaming again. Her mouth gaped open as she let out the ear-splitting squeals, covering her ears as tears spilled from her eyes.

"Let me out! LET ME OUT!" she wailed, "I WANT OUT! I WANT OF HERE! I WANT OUT! LET ME OUT!"

I turned away for a moment, suddenly feeling afraid of the girl. I'd seen her be stubborn, cold, and detached... but I've never seen her like this before. I didn't want to see her like this; I didn't like this. She wasn't the pleasant-looking doll I remembered seeing earlier. I turned my back to her and covered my ears from the sound, trying to block her out, but she kept screaming and chanting. I could hear more crashing as she began to throw things at the windows - chairs, hangers, books, shoes...  
She picked up one of her heart rate monitors to throw it, but then she was held back by two men in white uniforms who took her arms and restrained her before she could, pulling her away from the window and away from my line of sight. The only thing I could see now was doctors and nurses rushing in, blocking everything with their backs as they strapped her down to the bed. More and more doctors were flooding in and I began to wonder just how many people it took for them to actually keep her down.  
I moved away from the window and toward my bed, but before I got back under the covers, I decided against going back to sleep. Something in me wanted to see what was happening in 60C; what were they doing to her? Why was she so angry? Why did she require so many doctors? Maybe they were shooting her up with some kind of tranquilizer or something.

Without a second thought, I was already outside my room, pulling on my housecoat as I turned the corner to room 60C. Whatever was happening to this girl gave me the strangest feeling of curiosity; I had to know what they were doing to her. Maybe they were giving her electric shock therapy or putting her in a straightjacket. What if she really was as crazy as everyone thinks she is and she really is one of those psychotics that belongs in the A wing? After all, she WAS in there at one point, according to that girl I met in group therapy.  
The chanting and hollering began to turn into begging and whimpering as I neared the room. I carefully peeked through the door.  
Beside her bed was Dr. Walters and a woman doctor with long black curls whom I didn't recognize. Dr. Walters filled a syringe full of clear yellow liquid about halfway, then began to tap the side of the needle to get the bubbles out. From there, he bent over and held the shot against Brittany's arm. She began to sob at the sight of the syringe, desperately attempting to rip her arm out of the restraint of the harness that fastened her to the bed.

"No, no! NO! Dr. Walters, please! Please! I'll stop, I will! I'll stop! Just please!"  
The syringe was placed in the fold of her forearm, she began squealing again, balling her hands into fists.  
"NO!"  
"Brittany, it's only going to hurt more if you continue to act like this. Please hold still and relax your arm," said the woman doctor, moving hair out of the screaming girl's eyes. Brittany continued to beg and plead.  
"No, please! _Please_! I won't do it anymore! I won't! I'll be quiet now!"  
"Brittany, you said that _last_ time this happened and you didn't calm down. Don't you remember?"  
"But that was different! Please! I don't want it! Please, Dr. Thomas!"  
"I'm sorry, Brittany, but it's for your own good."  
With that, her arm was jabbed with the syringe before she had time to struggle. She moved her arm only slightly when it went through her skin, but she seemed to be calm after a minute or so of being given the drug. She began to close her eyes, mumbling something inaudible under her breath as the woman doctor Brittany called Dr. Thomas sat by her bedside, speaking to her gently. The rest of the hospital workers exited the room, looking a lot wearier than when they'd entered it. Before I heard what Dr. Thomas was telling Brittany, I was interrupted by Dr. Walters. He stood before me with a wooden clipboard under his arm.  
"Alvin, what are you doing outside of your room after quiet hours?"  
I swallowed hard, expecting to get a lecture no matter what I answered with.  
"I heard screaming...and it woke me up. I just got spooked, that's all. I just wanted to see what all the commotion was about."  
"Okay. Next time, use the intercom in your room to call for the nurses, alright? The problem we have with letting you wander around is that it you'll be immediately escorted back. You know that, don't you?"  
I nodded, suddenly feeling a tinge of annoyance. He patted me on the shoulder and walked me back to room 1D.  
"Alright, sport. Now try to get some sleep, alright?"

Another hour had passed and it was 4am. Outside, I could see the vague shadows of trees in the distance and the outlines of the garden outside my window. The sun wasn't out quite yet. It was way too early to be considered daytime. I'd spent the hours of the night tossing and turning, trying to figure out how to shut my mind off so I could have a few hours of peace. No luck. I was alert as I would ever be, waiting for some kind of drowsiness or fatigue to come over me. Nothing.

But then, out of the blue, there was this voice. It took me a moment to realize that somebody was trying to speak to me.  
"E-excuse me?"

I turned to the direction of this new sound. It was pleasant; gentle. Familiar.  
"Hello?"  
My eyes fluttered open, peering over at the doorway of my room. Standing in the shadows was a silhouette of someone tall and thin - a girl from what I could see. She seemed to sway a little bit as she awaited my response.  
"Uh...hi?" I replied, keeping the covers of my bed over my shoulders. Who could possibly have been awake at this hour? She seemed like a child - how could any child wake up at this time?  
"Hi," mumbled the voice again. She stepped forward and I could just barely see her face in the dimness of the room. She wore pink-rimmed glasses and a blue turtle-neck sweater that was a few sizes too big from what I could see, and she had to have been about nine or ten years old. She was much thinner than I'd thought she was a second ago, wearing a skirt that revealed the lower part of her legs. She looked as if she'd been fighting with someone - there were cuts and bruises covering her legs and the porcelain skin on her face. Her lip was busted up pretty bad, too. The strangest part was, she didn't seem like the type that would fight.

What was a girl her age doing on this wing in the first place? Pediatric patients were located in a totally different building. But I didn't want to ask her what she was doing in here. Maybe she was visiting a patient on the D wing and just got lost.

"Can I help you?" I asked in my nicest tone of voice. I didn't appreciate her interrupting my attempts to fall asleep, but I didn't want to scare her away. It seemed like if I did so much as sneeze she would flee in an instant like some sort of wild deer.

"Actually, I was wondering... is it okay if I hide in your room for a while?" she said in a hushed voice. She looked behind her as if she was being followed by someone.

"Um...I'm sorry, _what?_" I said, a little perplexed by her question. Did she just ask me if she could hide in my room?

"Is it okay if I hide in here? It'll just be for a few minutes, then I'll leave."

"Why do you need to hide? Who're you hiding from?" I asked, sitting up slowly.

"U-um...I...I'll tell you when I'm done hiding, okay?" She said quickly, ducking into my closet and closing the door behind her. I didn't get up from my bed or ask her anymore questions. It was fine by me: if she needed to hide, I'd rather she just do so and keep quiet.

I stayed awake and watched the closet door for about fifteen minutes or so, but she still wasn't coming out. Her idea of _"a few minutes"_ must've been longer than my idea of it. I started thinking about whether I should knock on the door and ask if she was still in there and if she needed a little more time, or just flat out kicking her out of my room so I could get some rest. However, I figured that since she wasn't making a sound, I'd better let it slide for now. Besides, I was beginning to feel drowsy.

After a minute or so more of staring at my closet door, I laid down on my back. I felt strange; heavier than last I laid down - like I was lounging in quicksand and slowly being sucked into the sheets. Finally giving in, I closed my eyes and gave my body what my mind had been keeping from it - a deep sleep.

* * *

**Four Hours Later**

When I awoke four hours later for breakfast, I could see everything much clearer now than I could before. The sun was rising hazily in the distance, projecting its brightness behind the trees and casting a shadow on their branches and leaves on the roof of the south entrance. Today was Tuesday, and Tuesday meant french toast for breakfast.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching out the lower half of my body. I rocked back and forth on my heels to get the blood flowing back into my toes, then began peeling off my sweatpants to put on a pair of jeans. That's when I remembered:  
_There's a little girl hiding in my closet!_

Immediately, I pulled on my jeans, keeping an eye on my closet door to make sure the girl wouldn't come out while I was getting dressed. I buttoned and zipped up the fly of my pants and snuck over to my closet. I knocked; no answer. I knocked again, but there was still no response.  
"Hello? Little girl? A-are you still in there?" I asked, tapping on the door with my knuckle, "You can come out now."

"Alvin?" Said a voice from out in the hallway. I jolted, pulling away from the door of my closet. Looking towards the hall, I saw Dr. Walters waiting for me outside, "Are you ready for breakfast, Alvin?"  
"Um...y-yeah! Of course!" I responded quickly, "I just gotta put on my new shirt. Then I'll be right out."

"Okay, take your time. I'll be waiting out here for you."

Quickly, I pulled off my nightshirt and grabbed a new dry-cleaned on from the clean pile folded on a chair by my window. I took a moment to smell it; just as I thought, it reeked of hospital detergent. It was the flowery kind that smelled like old lady and fine linen. _Gag me,_ I thought.

I found myself beginning to stare at my closet door again, paranoia creeping over me. What if I opened the door and she was asleep in there? Would I just leave her to sleep in my closet, or should I report her to the nurses on duty? If I reported her, would she get in a lot of trouble for intruding in an inpatient's dorm?

I eyed the doorknob for a good ten seconds before placing my hand over it, then I twisted the handle and the door swung open, revealing.

….Nothing. She wasn't there; all there was was a closet full of motionless clothes.

I began to move around the shirts and pants hanging in the closet, making sure she wasn't stowed away behind anything. She had vanished without a trace - everything in the closet was exactly the way I'd left it the day before. Nothing had been disturbed. I stepped back from the closet and began to search around my room in a panic - I looked under my bed, out my window, in the bathroom... But no such luck. She was _gone_.

Surely I hadn't imagined her this whole time...

* * *

**Third Person:**

Stepping out into the hallway, Alvin turned to close his door before joining Dr. Walters by the corner of the C and D wings. Every morning at promptly the same time, Alvin was to report to the dining hall with his escort at approximately 8am. This was a requirement set by the staff once they took note of his eating disorder; those who struggled with eating disorders were to be watched as they ate to make sure they were getting their required dosage of nutrition every morning before therapy sessions began. On Tuesdays after breakfast, art therapy would begin at 8:30am - this was part of Alvin's new schedule.

Like clockwork, Alvin finished his meal of french toast and hashbrowns at exactly 8:20am. It seemed that the longer he lived here, the more he'd gotten used to his body working systematically, syncing with his scheduled therapy sessions and meal times. He was now used to his stomach growling five to ten minutes before breakfast, lunch, and dinner without fail. The doctors said that this was a good thing; the more his stomach was used to an agenda, the more willing he would be to eat just out of a force of habit. By now, Alvin wasn't really daunted by people watching him eat all the time - just so long as no one was there to watch him sleep, he was fine.

"Alvin...Seville?" Called a nurse from the activities hall, "Is there an Alvin Seville here?"

Alvin stood up from his seat, "right here."

"Hello, Alvin," greeted the nurse warmly, "My name's Peggy, nice to meet you. I'll be taking you to your art therapy session now."

She began walking down the C hall, leading him gently with her hand barely touching his back. Alvin looked at the woman; she had dark, warm eyes; she was fairly tall - probably about 5'9 or so - and she had bright red hair that matched the color of her eyebrows and eyelashes, so it must've been her natural hair color. She looked to be in her mid-forties shown from the slight wrinkles under the bottom lashes of her eyes and the parenthesis that went from the sides of her nose to the base of her chin. She was a pleasant looking woman. Even as she walked silently alongside Alvin, she wore a slight smile.

As Alvin's gaze moved to her ears, he noticed a bizarre scar that ran from the lobe of her left ear all the way down to her collarbone. It didn't look fresh, but it looked somewhat recent - like she'd gotten into some sort of accident within the past year or so. The red-clad chipmunk wasn't so sure if he wanted to know the origins of that scar. He continued forward, keeping his eyes ahead to avoid staring.

Peggy lead him around the corner down a narrow, tunnel-like hallway. The tiles had turned from clear, hospital white to colorful and completely surfaced with random dried splotches of multi-colored tile paint. Alvin's guess was that during art therapy, inpatients were given a tile to paint designs on. Most of them were just splattered paint designs or handprints, but there were a few that were hand-painted flowers or little murals of trees and the outdoors, butterflies or zoo animals. Some of them were just solid colors - red, green, blue, and yellow. One of the squares was painted entirely black.

Looking up from the floor, Alvin was dizzied by the designs on the walls. Here, inpatients had painted their names in different colors and put their room number next to the signature. Some of them had little poems next to their names instead. Alvin slowed at a few, trying to read the poems before he passed by them. He saw Ellie's name on the wall. There was a poem next to her signature that read:

_Alas, somber clouds, dismay_

_Bring me kindly rain today_

_Ice in crystals, warm them ere_

_they kiss my cheeks in droplets bare_

_By night, I'm stolen more away_

_Than awaken, I fear, yesterday_

_A life like mine, restart and take_

_So I may no longer be awake_

_For this water I cry does not as yours_

_that brings new dread while thine restores._

_-Eleanor Fitzgerald_

"Nurse Peggy?" asked Alvin, stopping in front of Eleanor's poem, "Why do some of these signatures have poems and some don't?"

"Well, it all depends upon the artist's preference. The inpatients in this art therapy class could choose either a poem or a picture next to their names. This girl chose to write an original poem."

The boy nodded, moving along to the next few names. Then he came upon a blank patch where someone had covered up a spot with white paint. The paint covered up most of that particular part of the wall, interrupting what was written underneath it. If he looked close enough, he could see red marks under the white coat of paint. The marks formed letters - bold, harsh letters. Peggy watched Alvin as he tried to read what it said.

"One of the patients had a mental breakdown in the middle of art therapy here. We weren't sure what the trigger was, but she took it out on the wall, it looks like!" She said with a hint of humor. Alvin paid her no mind, deciphering what was written previous to the guise of white. He could barely see the letters, but he could read what they said:

**_BRITTANY CUTLER IS THE DEVIL'S CHILD_**

**_BRITTANY CUTLER IS THE DEVIL'S CHILD_**

**_BRITTANY CUTLER IS THE DEVIL'S CHILD_**

**_GOD SLAY THE DEVIL AND HIS SWINE_**

**_GOD SLAY THE DEVIL AND HIS SWINE_**

**_GOD SLAY TH_**

The rest of the poem was cut off, most likely from someone restraining the patient who wrote it.

"Brittany Cutler is the devil's child...God slay the devil and his swine...?" Read Alvin aloud. He looked at Peggy, "What is that supposed to mean...?"

Peggy shrugged her shoulders, "The patient wrote this about herself. We're not sure why, but this patient has serious problems with her own self image."

"Is her name really Brittany Cutler?" He asked, having a decent idea of who the patient was. It had to have been the girl in 60C; he was sure of it.

"I'm sorry, Alvin, but I'm not at liberty to tell you that," she replied.

That was fine with him. He didn't need her to tell him it was her; _he knew_ it was. This had to have come from her - the same girl who'd been having episodes nearly every night without fail. The girl whose screaming wakes him up and makes it difficult for him to fall back asleep. There was no way it _wasn't_ her.

"Let's go, Alvin. Art Therapy awaits!" Said Peggy, urging him forward gently.

Peggy and Alvin continued down the hall until they reached wooden double doors with closed blinds in the windows. Peggy carefully peeked into the room, encouraging Alvin to follow alongside her. The two were met by a small, blonde woman wearing a diversely colored green blouse and a blonde braid that extended to the middle of her back. The woman had sharp green eyes that matched the green of her shirt. She smiled brightly upon their entrance, her bright red-coated lips curving up into an enraptured grin that emphasized the brightness of her teeth.

"Welcome back, Alvin!" Greeted the woman, "I'm Dr. Stevens! Do you remember me?"

Alvin stepped back a little, bewildered by the woman's sudden flamboyancy.

"Sorry, no..." he admitted guiltily. He looked at her for a long moment - she seemed familiar somehow, but he wasn't sure where he'd last seen her. The woman named Dr. Stevens laughed.

"Well that's okay! You'll get to know me soon enough around here! And hey, maybe it'll come back to you, hm?"

Alvin nodded a little, biting his lip nervously. He wasn't exactly sure what to say. Was he supposed to apologize for his absence of memory?

"Okay, Alvin! This is your stop!" Goaded Peggy, breaking the short silence, "I hope you enjoy your class!"

With that, Peggy ducked back through the double doors, exiting the art room. Dr. Stevens turned to Alvin, guiding him through the art room the way Peggy did with her hand barely the touching his back.

"So in case you've forgotten already, this is the art room! Today, we're doing canvas painting. Basically what that is is painting whatever you've been dreaming. If you don't remember any recent dreams, paint one that you remember having; it could be a nightmare, a daydream, anything. Does that sound alright?"

Alvin nodded as he was guided into a room that was filled with patients; there were probably about fifteen or sixteen people in the room all silently painting a mural on material-stretched canvases. The ceiling of this room hung lower than the other ceilings in the hospital and the room had curved windows and scarlet red walls - colors and shapes he didn't picture belonging in a mental institution. The floor was now solid concrete and swallowed up any sound his sneakers made while crossing it.

"Now you may choose where you'd like to sit. It can be anywhere, okay?"

"Mhm," Alvin replied, scanning the room for available seats. Looking around, he saw Eleanor, the girl from group therapy sitting in the corner of the room. He began to walk in her direction, but he saw that there weren't any seats available near where she sat, so he continued his search. On the opposite side of the room, there were several vacant seats surrounding another face he recognized; the girl from 60C. It was peculiar; no one seemed to be seated anywhere near her - it was like she was an outcast among the patients in the room. As Alvin filled a seat right next to her, the entire room went quiet. Voices turned from conversational chatting to secretive whispering in a matter of seconds. All eyes were on him for a moment, like everyone was waiting to see how she would react to him.

The red-headed outcast took a moment from her painting and turned her head, identifying who it was that'd bravely chosen a spot next to her. She recognized him instantly, but returned her attention to her artwork as if he wasn't neighboring her at all. The volume of the voices returned to normal as soon as there was nothing more to see.

"Hi," greeted Alvin bravely, leaning toward her slightly to see what she was painting; it was a mural of a small black and white box. The shadows and shading of the box looked perfectly three-dimensional. He raised his eyebrows, impressed with her craftsmanship.

"That's pretty good," he complimented with sincerity, "how'd ya learn to do art like that?"

No answer. She was ignoring him. Alvin sighed, picking up his paintbrush and toying with the horsehair bristles.

"Listen, I'm sorry for being rude to you a little while back. I didn't mean to be like that. I'm sorry."

Still no response. After waiting a minute or so for her to say something or give so much as a gesture, Alvin gave up. He turned his attention to the blank canvas in front of him, dunking the tip of his paintbrush into the black paint. As soon as the paintbrush hit the canvas, he was immediately engaged in his work, carefully smoothing out every blotch of paint evenly with the brush. Time ticked by and Alvin was absorbed, allowing his wrist to work it way around the canvas - everything was black. Every corner, every section of fabric except for two places in the center, which would be left blank until he colored them yellow. He was recreating the memories of that dream he used to have every night before he was checked into the hospital - the one with the two floating orbs. He kept replaying the image in his head down to the last detail he could muster.

Then, amidst his painting, there came a voice from next to him; Brittany's voice.

"You must find me interesting," she said, her voice hinted with a tone of amusement. Her voice was reduced to somewhat of a playful whisper, "I catch you staring at me all the time, you know..."

* * *

**Ohhh snap! Caught in the act of spying! ;D Thanks for reading, guys!**

**So what's gonna happen next? Is Brittany finally willing to talk to him all of a sudden? Who is the girl who hides in Alvin's room? Why is she hiding? Why does Peggy have a scar on her neck? Why did Brittany write those things on the wall? So many unanswered questions!**

**For those of you who're wondering, that poem that Eleanor wrote was actually a poem I wrote in middle school. I was looking through old schoolwork I did several years ago and came across it, so I decided to use it! Hope it worked well in this chapter. :)**

**Reviews are helpful and extremely appreciated! I'll update soon!**

**-Blythe**


	8. Lashing Out

**Hello, friend-os!**

**So before you guys read this, I'd just like to say THANK YOU 1000! I'm serious. You guys have been so wonderful to me and have been encouraging me SO much! Your reviews add such brightness to my day, I gotta wear shades!**

**Thank you especially to ChipmunkFanNo.1 for all your support! From the bottom of my heart, thanks so much for the suggestions and inspiration! It means so much to me. Honestly!**

**And to my reviewers and readers, thanks a million! I'm so touched. You guys rock! :D**

**-Blythe**

* * *

_"I catch you staring at me all the time..."_

Alvin nearly dropped his paintbrush. It was official; he had been caught in the act of spying. He damned himself in his mind, cursing to every cell in his body that he'd done so. What made him think she wouldn't notice he was watching?! After all the times he'd sat in his window and stared at her, of course she was bound to notice! Now trapped in a bit of a bind, Alvin did was any sensible person would do: deny, deny, deny.

"I-i don't know what you're talking ab-"

"So why is that, boy from 1D?" She interrupted, her rhinestone cerulean eyes paralyzing him mid-sentence, "What is it about me that you find so..._alluring_?"

"Listen, I-"

"Is it because I'm..._ loud?_ Am I too_ loud_ for you, boy from 1D?" she yelled boisterously, slamming down her paintbrush on the canvas easel and slanting her body toward him. As usual, Brittany had officially started another one of her psychodynamic disruptions. Not a soul in the room moved an inch - the sound of a pen dropping would've caused cataclysm.

"No, that's not-"

"Oh no, wait..." she interjected again, halting him. She rose to her feet and stepped in front of him, pulling off his cap. To everyone's utter surprise (including Alvin's), she began casually playing with his hair as if it wasn't unusual - as if she knew him. Alvin was a mix of flustered and downright confused by her as she gently combed her fingers through his hair, occasionally playing with the ends of a few strands. His face was visibly flushed by now and a lump was starting to form in the back of his throat; he wasn't sure if he was afraid of her, or if he was just startled. What on Earth was she doing?!

"Perhaps...it's because you think I'm... _pretty_." she whispered provocatively.

Alvin swallowed hard. This was true. In all honesty, Alvin did think she was quite attractive, but that wasn't the reason why he he spent so much time wondering about her and watching her. Come to think of it, he wasn't quite so sure why he did that - it was a subconscious thing.

"You do, don't you?" she teased, moving her hands from his head to his cheeks, holding his face in her delicate, porcelain palms, "I am quite_ pretty,_ aren't I?"

She reached her hand to Alvin's easel and dipped her finger in the small container of red paint. Then, she began doing something far more peculiar than what he usually expected her to do - she began to smear it on her own lips as if it were lipgloss. When she'd covered her lips with a fine coat of ketchup-bottle red, she returned her stifling gaze to his.

"Tell me, boy from 1D," she whispered intensely, "just how pretty am I compared to the other female jailbirds in this crazy-house, hmm?"

Dr. Stevens stepped in, adding to the intensity of the situation, "Brittany, that's quite enough! Remove that paint from your lips and take a seat!"

"Or what, doc?" sneered Brittany calmly, not bothering to turn her head toward Dr. Stevens, "Are ya gonna put me away in the cloud room again? Is that what you're gonna do?"

"Brittany Cutler, you better leave that young man alone! Alvin, don't listen to her-"

"Oh! _Alvin_, is it?" intruded Brittany again, smiling ominously down at him with the new shade of red coloring her lips, "what a handsome name for such a handsome boy! Now tell me, _Alvin_... that_ IS_ the reason why you stare at me all the time, is it not? You do it because I'm_ beautiful..._"

"Brittany-!" yelled Dr, Stevens.

"What do you think is my most _beautiful_ quality, hm? Is it my hair? " She asked, tossing back a lock of her strawberry blonde hair, "Or my skin?"

"Brittany, this is your last warning!"

"Or maybe my _eyes..._" she flirtatiously batted her eyelashes. Alvin was overwhelmingly bimused, frantically searching for something, anything he could do or say. She had stunned him to the point of immobility of the body as well as the tongue. She was_ terrifying_ - and this time, she was targetting him. She leaned close to his face, stopping no more than an inch away, a malevolent grin creeping over her lips.

"Perhaps...my_ lips._.."

She took the finger she'd dipped in paint and touched it to her lips again, then she proceeded to drag the finger off of her bottom lip and over her cheek, leaving a trail of red behind it. Dr. Stevens picked up the intercom phone and rapidly dialed a number, speaking softly into it as if communicating a secret to the person on the other end. This immediately caught Brittany's attention; her head snapped in Dr. Steven's direction, but she still spoke to Alvin.

"Or maybe," said Brittany, purposely loud enough so that Dr. Stevens and the whole class could hear, "MAYBE you wanna watch me so much because I'm_ FUCKING CRAZY!"_

Her sudden increase of volume caused Alvin to startle backwards in his seat. He was afraid to do anything, much less respond to her! Brittany was a storm and he was right in the center of her whirlwinds - something he'd hoped he'd never experience in her presence.  
"That's what you all think, isn't it?" she scolded to everyone in the room, "You all think I'm a Goddamned _PSYCHO!_"

Her fists were clenched so hard that they turned white. She began to unleash her fury, "That's all anybody ever does! No one does anything but watch like I'm some caged animal in a zoo! Well I'm not, okay?! I'm not the fucking circus!"

No one responded, not even Dr. Stevens.

"I feel like I'm living in a fishbowl!" said Brittany, her voice shrinking as it began to crack from tears, "and I'm tired of it!"

"You're making it this way. It doesn't have to be like this, Brittany," assured Dr. Stevens calmly, approaching her carefully.

"Yes it does. It _ALWAYS_ does!" snapped Brittany, moving to her easel. She fondled the edge of the cup that held her grey paint.  
"Brittany, please sit down. You don't need to cause another uproar."

She picked up two of her paint containers and held them over her head for all of the class to see. If Alvin guessed correctly about what was about to happen, that would mean he wouldn't be walking out of art therapy without at least one drop of paint staining his clothes - in other words, the room was about to turn into a Jackson Pallock painting.

"You all humiliate me on a daily basis... so now it's my turn to humiliate _you!_"

Brittany suddenly released her arms, slinging the cups of paint forward and creating two sloppy lines of yellow and blue on the floor and on the backs of the canvases of the other patients' murals. She continued to hurl the contents of the cups until nearly every drop of each color was spilled somewhere in the room. Once she was finished with a color, she'd grab two new ones, creating more of a color catastrophe than before. The other patients in the room ducked behind the canvases, some of them shrieking and covering their heads and others covering their shirts in attempt to protect themselfs from the sudden introduction of unwanted reds and purples. Brittany herself was covered with paint, yet she didn't seem to mind - her color frenzy was taking control of her as she thrashed about, yelling obsenities and emptying more and more of the paint.

"How do you all like me_ NOW,_ huh?! Now everyone's gonna be staring at _YOU_ people!"

In the middle of Brittany's absurd show of self-expression, two burly men in white uniforms burst through the wooden double doors and took hold of her before she could finish emptying the rest of her containers. Alvin recognized these men from earlier that morning when he'd been awakened by her sudden screaming and resisting treatment. What was happening now was no different from what'd occurred earlier - the girl was, once again, rebelling against them with every once of her strength, nearly being lifted entirely off the ground in the process.

"You all may think you're getting better in this hellhole, but you _ALL_ are just as_ PSYCHO _as_ ME!_" She bellowed, her voice echoing as she was dragged out into the hallway.

The room was quiet after she left while the victims of the paint disaster started to recover, coming out from their hiding places. Dr. Stevens heaved an exasperated sigh as she took out a roll of paper towels from a cabinet above the sink and began cleaning up after Brittany's episode.

Alvin hadn't moved since Brittany was hauled out. He was entirely frozen, afraid to move anything in fear of the consequences. The red-clad chipmunk stared timidly at the double doors, fearing her return as he began to shiver, little tremors beginning from the very tips of his fingers and spreading from his hands up to his arms until his whole body was trembling. What was happening to him? Had this girl turned him into a paranoid basketcase? He'd never been this afraid to move before over a person. And much less, a girl!  
"Dr. Stevens?" called a concerned, gentle voice from right next to him. This voice was one he'd heard before; it was the girl from group therapy - Ellie, "something's wrong with Alvin..."

* * *

**In Dr. Walters's Office:**

"Who does she think she is? I mean, she's not the only one with problems in this hospital! Where does she get off thinking that she somehow has the right to act all psychotic all the time?!"

"Alvin..."

"She walks around like 'hey look at me! I'm that crazy girl from 60C! I can be as loud, obnoxious, and disruptive as I want because I have problems!'"

"Alvin, _please-"_

"She has no sense of consideration for anyone else! And she wonders why she's been here for three years! She wonders why she's not allowed into the courtyard garden! Well, gee! Maybe it's because she's such a_ DRAMA queen!_"

"I don't think you quite understand-"

"Give me a break! She even got paint_ all over_ my cap!" Alvin removed his lucky red cap and pointed to a little yellow line of acrylic paint that ran from the ridge of the hat to around the side, "see?!"

"Yes, I see. But Alvin-"

"How is it acceptable to let someone like her out of the A wing?! She obviously belongs there! I mean, I'm fearing for my safety!"

"Alvin," began Dr. Walters sternly. He waited for Alvin to calm down and stop frantically pacing. "Please. Try to sit down and relax."

"Relax? How can-"

"Yes, relax. Try. Perhaps once you calm yourself, we can have a conversation about this."

Alvin reluctantly took a seat on the antique chair on other side of the room, facing the doctor. He slouched in the chair, grumbling to himself incessantly as the doctor scribbled down some notes on his clipboard.

It was a mystery how everyone in the hospital seemed to just accept Brittany's disruptive behavior and allow her to live like a high-functioning patient in the C wing after spending time in the A wing. From the things he'd heard about her, she should have a wing dedicated to just her! According to Ellie, Brittany had put a nurse in the hospital at one point because she threw silverware at her. In Alvin's eyes, sane people just don't do those things! Another indicator that she's severely disturbed is the fact that she wakes him and many other up in the middle of the night with those persistant episodes that always end up with her being tied down to her bed and being given a drug. Once again, sane people just don't do those things!

What aggravated Alvin more than anything was the fact that she lashed out at him in the middle of art therapy; what did he ever do to her that justified her being so rude and acting the way she did toward him? He wasn't trying to be offensive! He just wanted to apologize for earlier and for calling her immature. He didn't mean for her to react the way she did and start throwing paint! It was like something a person would see in a bad movie!

The way she treated people in general was just uncalled for and unacceptable. How was she ever expecting to get out of here if she acted so wild all the time? He didn't understand her, and he was probably glad he didn't.

"Alvin, "said Dr. Walters, breaking Alvin's silent train of thought, "there's something I want you to know about Brittany Cutler. All of my other patients have been told this, but because of your past, I'm hoping you'd understand and be able to relate a little better."

Alvin waited, sitting up in his seat and paying all of his attention to the doctor's words.

"Brittany's _very_ sick, Alvin."

Alvin scoffed, "Yeah, no kidding!"

"No, I don't think you quite understand."

The red-clad boy was silent again, allowing the doctor to continue, "Now, I want you to know that I'm not allowed to tell you a lot of why she's as ill as she is, but I just want you to know that Brittany Cutler has been through more in her life than I've seen in _any_ adolescent through my twenty years as a psychiatrist and I will not tolerate another patient of mine harrassing her."

The temperature of the room seemed to drop significantly as the doctor's words hung in the air. Alvin's curiosity was rising once again, causing him to lean forward a little.

"What...what happened to her?"

The doctor took off his glasses, inhaling deeply.

"She was a victim of significant domestic abuse as a child. I'm not permitted to tell you what exactly happened to her, but because of the incidences of her childhood, she struggles to deal with reality due to post traumatic stress. However, she recently has also been showing signs of a different adolescent condition, which we had no knowledge of when she was let out of the A wing. The staff has considered putting her back in the A ward if her attitude persists."

Alvin nodded, suddenly feeling a weight on his shoulders while the doctor spoke.

"Now, Alvin...don't want you to give her a hard time, okay? I realize that her episode during art therapy today upset you, but please try to keep your distance from her if you want to avoid her psychological meltdowns."

The boy remained silent and motionless in his seat, not even blinking. It was possible that he might have been feeling guilty for bad-mouthing her not even five minutes ago.

"So... is that post-traumatic thing the reason why she wakes up and starts screaming at night?"

"Well, we can't be sure since she rarely communicates what it is she sees in her dreams, but she says that the same one happens every night."

This story was all too familiar. That's when it hit him: the way Brittany is reacting here is a lot like the way Alvin was reacting outside the hospital.

This must've been what it felt like for Dave whenever Alvin lashed out, creating more and more drama as the days went by. Dave must've hated watching Alvin while he got worse and worse every day, waking up screaming in the middle of the night after having the same dream about the stained glass. The way Brittany had terrorized the art room with acrylic paint was a lot like how Alvin lit the auditorium on fire a year and a half previous - it was no fun for anyone, to say the least. His ill-considerate act was much worse than what Brittany did, seeing as it caused collateral damage, but it still brought to his mind the remorseful thoughts of how awful it must've been for the drama club and the stage crew when they found out that their performance space was sabotaged.

Lastly, the way Brittany lashed out during art therapy reminded him of how he took his anger out on Theodore, the friendly boy from school; how Alvin made the little green-clad chipmunk cry on the sidewalk after he simply put out his cigarette. Alvin began to feel pangs of regret for how he treated Theodore, the only kid in school who actually was trying to help him. It was like how Alvin was the only one who seemed to be concerned for Brittany, or how he was the only one who cared to even do so much as sit next to her. Alvin figured that during group therapy when people were harrassing Brittany, that must've been what it was like for Theodore when people made fun of Alvin during class all the time.

Suddenly, Alvin wished more than anything that he could apologize to Theodore and to those he'd hurt. Yes, Theodore may have followed him around like a puppy and stuck around even when he wanted to be alone, but he didn't deserve to be so cruelly cast away after just trying to help. And who knows how many nights Dave had been kept awake by Alvin's persistant screaming! Yes, Alvin still held a few grudges against Dave, but that didn't keep him from feeling guilty about all those times Dave had to come into Alvin's room at night and hold him until he quieted down. Dave had always been there for Alvin for as long as he could remember. The two did more fighting these days than anything else, but he knew that Dave still cared about him.

And as for the school's drama club, it must've been a real heartbreaker having to cancel the show because of what Alvin did. All that money that was taken out of the school's funds for supplies and instead invested in the thousands to repair the damages made by just him alone. It was all his fault.

_Everything_ was his fault.

"Alvin? Alvin, are you okay?" Inquired Dr. Walters, bringing the boy back into reality, "Do you want to talk about what you're feeling right now?"

"No," he replied, still not quite in touch with reality yet, "is this session over yet?"

* * *

Alvin was nauseating himself with guilty thoughts of 'could've, should've, would've' until 11 o'clock rolled around. It was almost time for lunch; he knew that because his stomach was relentlessly growling for it's next meal, as it usually did around 11am. After finally being released from his one-on-one therapy session, he would now be escorted to the dining hall.

Dr. Walters and Alvin started down the hallway toward the cafeteria, the numbers on the door descending gradually as they approached the corner to the C hallway. Before turning, Alvin began to hear something that was just out of his range of hearing. It was melodic, clear, familiar...

It was soothing and mysterious, yet familiar.

Alvin paused for a moment, taking in the sound and trying to determine which direction it was coming from; it wasn't where they'd just been, nor was it where they were going, but it was near. Once the doctor saw that Alvin was no longer beside him, he stopped and waited.

"What're you waiting for, Alvin?"

"Shh." hushed Alvin, putting a finger up to silence the doctor, "Do you hear_ that?_"

The sound continued, getting gradually louder, then softer. Alvin could vaguely identify the melody of the sound: someone - most likely female - was singing. And it wasn't just any singing; it was soulful, hypnotic, delicate... Alvin waited for the sound to get louder so he can follow it to the source. He wasn't sure what'd come over him, but he just had to know who the owner of such a lovely voice was.

Meanwhile, the doctor was grinning.

"She's got a beautiful voice doesn't she, Alvin?" said Dr. Walters, amused by Alvin's odd behavior.

"Who does? Who is that?" pressed Alvin hastily. He was anxious to know who belonged to this heavenly sound. The doctor simply laughed, shaking his head.

Alvin waited another moment, taking in the perfect music; it was enchanting him so much, he was ignoring his growling stomach. The doctor retreated to Alvin's side and urged him forward gently, chuckling.

"Come along, Alvin. I fear that if you don't get some food in that stomach of yours, your stomach will start eating your other organs!"

The boy unwillingly moved forward and away from earshot of the music, following the doctor's orders.

_"Wow..."_ Alvin whispered to himself, mystified. The boy was positively bewitched. Eating lunch would be a hard endeavor with such a melodic resonance on his mind. He was anxious to finish before the sound ceased, letting the usual silence return to the hospital hallways.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, you guys! I mean it! Thanks so much!**

**So... who does the voice belong to? What will happen the next time Alvin comes in contact with Brittany? Is Alvin beginning to change and realize new things about himself?**

**I'll be updating soon! Reviews are VERY appreciated!**

**-Blythe**


	9. Trouble

**Hey guys! Wow, it's been such a long time! I'm so sorry for the late update! As some of you know, I'm applying for college and things have been ****crazy! Again, I'm so sorry for my late update!**

**I hope you guys like this chapter - I've divided it into three sections. **

**It's probably a lot shorter than usual... but still, enjoy!**

**-Blythe**

* * *

**Alvin's point of view:**

When I was five, my mother and I would visit a church every Sunday morning while my brothers went to daycare.

There was nothing special about the church, so don't get too excited. I'm not about to tell you that this place is a temple of some kind of magical phenomenas where my mother saw scary ghosts or found buried treasure. No, this place was like any ordinary traditional house of God. The only difference was that no one was ever around when we visited - it was always just me and mother. There were no religious sermons ever going on.

At 7am, Mother and I would walk hand in hand around the outside of the property before we went in. She was always looking for something, stepping through the flowerbeds and felt around through the decaying remains of decomposing plants during autumn.

After that, we played a game called 'stack the rocks' where we'd go to the front of the church and pick up the decorative garden rocks, stacking them one on top of the other until mom found what she called 'the special rock.' There was nothing distinctive about the special rock - it wasn't shiny or golden and it wasn't unusual in shape. It was gray and had a flat bottom, just like the kind anybody could find in the woods or in their back yard. I never quite saw the significance of the game, but without fail, Mother and I played it every week. Some games of stack the rocks lasted longer than others - some took only a few minutes, others took over an hour. There were even times when Mom wouldn't find the special rock and we had to go home, but that only happened once or twice. Once she found the special rock, we put the rest back where they were before and went inside the church for a while.

The first few steps into the sanctuary always reminded me of a memory I'd never fully developed; of a time in my life and of people I never was fully acquainted to - mostly of my real father. The place smelled like how I remembered him smelling: there was a light scent of after-shave, old books and fabric. I only have brief memories of him, but the church was where I remembered him the most, however few reminiscences I had left of him stored in my five year-old brain.

You see, I never really knew my real father because he had passed away before I learned to talk. It was a car accident. All I've been told about it was that Mom was in the car with him when it happened, but she survived. I don't know much about what happened besides that.

Ever since Dad's accident, Mom and I went to the church because that's where the two of them got married. That was her attachment to the place - somehow, I think was the way she communicated with him.

When we were inside the sanctuary, we would sit in the creaky old church pews for hours, neither of us making any sound. As anybody who's ever been five or six years old would know, sitting for that long in one spot was agonizingly boring. At times, I brought along a penny in my shoe and used it to carve letters, numbers, and small pictures on the splintering pews. It helped me to cope with the insipidity of silence and sitting still.  
Mom always talked to somebody while we sat, but I always assumed it was father. She never smiled, yet her voice was always light; delighted and pleased at whatever they talked about. In mid-sentence, she'd grab my hand and squeeze it tightly, then release it soon after.

Looking back on it now, the most memorable part about the place was the complex, yet elegantly constructed stained glass windows. They're the same ones in my dream except they don't make any movement. One stained glass window was of a shepard and his flock of several different animals of all sizes, shapes, and colors; each of them coexisting either sitting or laying on the grass. Another stained glass window was of children holding hands with one another, just like the one in my dream. Lastly, the stained glass window in the center depicted a glorious view of mountains, rivers, valleys, and many other landscapes all within the different shades of glass. If I hadn't been so used to seeing them every week, I would've wanted to stare at each window for hours at a time.  
But one day, Mom and I could no longer go to the abandoned church and watch the stained glass; someone had burned it to the ground one day in August, 1984. Every single bit of it was gone, and that meant there was no option to repair damage unless someone decided to rebuild it from scratch. No one ever did, though - for now, that place remains as a barren patch of land with no evidence of what used to be there. If you walk around the patch, you could probably find burned metal screws and nails, but all the stained glass is gone, all of those pews, all of the wooden foundations... And the smell of my father - the only memory I had left of him.

Gone - just like everything else important to me.

* * *

**Incidence one, Monday, 6pm**

"E, E, E...E, E, E..." Hummed Alvin melodically as he carefully adjusting the pegs to his guitar. The bottom string gave a low twanging sound with each upward plucking of his thumb as he waited for the tune of the string to match the E tone he played on the piano. It'd been a while since Alvin last had the chance to pick up a guitar or instrument of any kind, much less his own. When Dave visited, he brought Alvin the instrument along with several changes of clothing and personal hygiene supplies while the two had the chance to catch up. The familiarity of the six strings brought a feeling of nostalgia to the boy as he polished the neck. Though Alvin still wasn't on the same terms with Dave, he appreciated being given back his one true creative outlet during his incarceration in the ward. Music was an irreplacable part of his life, and now he could finally go back to what he loved doing most; creating it.

Alvin tapped on the 'E' key on the piano and began humming again until the two tones finally matched. His gaze fell over the detailed grain of the wood, noticing the fade of it's vibrant color which had given way to age. Judging by the number of dusty fingerprints on his guitar, it looked as though the it had been sitting in the attic for quite some time! He dragged his forefinger over the curvatures of the instrument and collected a thick layer of dust.

"Ick..." he muttered, attempting to clean off the headstock. It was amazing how foreign and heavy the guitar felt laying over his lap; what once was a regularly visited stringed instrument was now a distant memory. He wasn't even sure if he remembered all the chords...

When he was finished cleaning and tuning it, Alvin stared down at the guitar and awkwardly tried arranging his hands over the neck, alligning his fingers separately on each string and fret. At first he hit a couple of sour notes, but as a few minutes had passed, he started to strum softly once he regained familiarity to the chords, straightening his back as he played more comfortably. He may not've been as good as he used to before his teen years, but he still knew how to play a decent tune if given time to practice.

Alvin began jumping from chord to chord, improvising his own music just as he used to when he was nine - he leaned forward, increasing the speed of his strumming and then added some fingerpicking, creating improvised riffs. After a while, Alvin couldn't even tell that he was still playing. In fact, he was so encompassed by his music that he'd forgotten that he was in the community room. That meant that he also didn't apprehend the number of eyes that gawked at him as the vibrations from his guitar reverberated off the walls of the confined space.

It was only when he suddenly felt someone sit beside him on the wooden bench did he notice he wasn't alone. He immediately halted, slapping his hand over the strings.

"Oh, don't let me stop you!" said a girl's voice. It was Ellie, the girl from group therapy, "that sounded so cool!"

"Uh...thank you," mumbled Alvin, embarrassed. As he refocused on the room, he could see how a crowd of people were beginning to disperse. Were they just watching him?

"How long have you been playing?" encouraged Ellie politely.

"Eh...well I'm quite rusty, but my Dad taught me when I was a kid. I haven't picked up the guitar in years until now!"

"Well you sound great. Can you play any songs?"

Alvin gave consideration to her question, thinking of all the possible acoustic melodies he could play. Perhaps there were five he could remember... no, maybe ten...fifteen? He brushed his fingers over a clean G chord.

"Um... yeah. B-but I barely remember most of things I learned back when I could actually play. So I guess that'll just have to come with time..."

"Oh," said Ellie, an intonation of disappointment in her voice, "Well you sound pretty good so far for someone who never plays!"

Alvin smiled bashfully, clearing his throat, "Thanks...um...Do you play music?"

"Um...well, I used to. My sisters and I had a band. I played bass guitar." Eleanor said, looking down at her feet, "But I stopped."

"Why?"

Eleanor adjusted herself awkwardly on the wooden bench, undoing one of her blonde pigatils and combing her hair with her fingers, "um...I mean, it was a lot of things, really. Mainly because one of my sisters-"

"Ellie! There you are!"

With just those few words, a recoil of energy surged down Alvin's spine. That voice! Surely it wasn't who he thought it was...  
Eleanor stood up from the wooden bench, brushing off the wrinkles in her green sundress and tightened the ribbons in her pigtails. Alvin was visibly flustered; he was afraid to look up. The voice belonged to none other than the obtrusive boy from school - the one whom Alvin threatened and brought to tears a short while back: Theodore.  
"Teddy, I'd like you to meet someone," began Eleanor, taking the familiar boy's hand in hers and leading him to the piano, "this is Alvin. He's new around here."  
It was too late - Alvin would just have to succumb to the torture of looking the boy in the eye. With great hesitation, he rose to his feet, maintaining as little eye contact as possible.

"Oh... h-hi, Alvin," said the boy, "nice to meet you."

'Nice to meet you'? This was strange; did Theodore not recognize him? Confused, Alvin glanced up to meet his eyes. Yes, this definitely was the same Theodore from school, he was sure of it. Theodore's eyes glistened, as if anticipating something to be said right then - like an apology or an explanation of some sort...or perhaps an introduction. There was certainly recognition in his eyes as he spoke, but why was he acting as if the two had never met before?

"Nice...to meet you, too," replied Alvin politely, stuffing his hands into his pockets, "uh...haven't we met before?"

What came next was especially eerie: Theodore looked to Eleanor for a moment and then back at Alvin, shaking his head.  
"I don't believe so...have we?"

Alvin stepped back a little, furrowing his eyebrows, "of course we have."

At that forward response, Theodore smiled politely, "oh! Do you mind refreshing my memory then?"

Unbelievable. Was this guy serious? Surely he was playing around or getting back at Alvin for the way he was treated a while back on the sidewalk.

"You went to my school!" Exclaimed Alvin, "We shared a bunch of classes together, don't you remember? You would sit with me at lunch...a-and follow me around in the hallway and walk me home every day! My father even used to let you come over to our house for dinner sometimes!"

Theodore seemed rigid, remaining stiff and inert. He guiltily shook his head again, "Uh...you must...h-have the wrong Theodore, Alvin. I don't remember any of that."

Alvin's feet were aching to pace. Right where he stood, he was as uncomfortable as he'd ever been in the common room; here he was, standing in front of a kid who tried hard to be his friend for all that time and now he was just denying the two of them even being acquainted? How could this be? The red-clad boy persisted.

"How do you not remember? Wh-what about a while back when I...when I threatened to beat you up for putting out my cigarette? Don't you remember that?! I made you cry and everything!"

The plump, green clad boy winched. This was evidence that he definitely remembered that incidence without question. Alvin knew when someone was telling a lie. After all, he had two younger brothers at one point in his life - anyone with a sibling would know what fibbing looked like, and Theodore was laying it on pretty thick! And he wasn't the only one doing this to Alvin. Dave was awfully secretive, too. There seemed to be so much being kept a secret that Alvin felt as though he was living with a blindfold on and being pushed in all kinds of directions at once. It was dizzying and precarious, making each step feel as though he would fall.

Searching for strategies in his mind, skepticism stuck to Alvin and overthrew him with memories and prickly impatience - exactly what reason would Theodore have that would justify lying to him? Was he afraid of getting hurt again?

"Listen," began Alvin, "I'm sorry about freaking out on you like that, if that's why you're acting like this. I didn't mean to explode for no reason and take out all my frustrations on you. I was...I wasn't 'alright' in the head, if you know what I'm saying..."

Theodore made no sound.

"But I'm a lot better now. I'm... I'm feeling a little better because I've gotten more sleep, s-so I won't beat you up, I swear. A-and... I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry."  
He searched the green-clad chipmunk's eyes for something, anything at all that would give way to emotional recall. Nothing. He didn't flinch that time. This was beginning to scare Alvin. At wit's very end, he was desperate; he had to say something different.

"I guess, I'm just...I guess I don't understand... I mean, I thought we were f-...friends."

Just then, Theodore looked as if he an arrow had shot straight through his heart - as though emotion was cutting right though him like scissors through tissue paper. The air in the room was stale and sharp as the three of them stood in stillness; no one dared to move the conversation forward or away from what was being said. Alvin watched as the boy slowly began to crumble. Theodore's eyes filled heavily with tears.

"I'm sorry," said Theodore, staring at the ceiling and forcing away blunt emotions, "I don't...remember. And I.. I think my visiting time is up for now."

The boy turned on his heels and headed for the door posthaste, leaving behind a very stupified Alvin. Eleanor followed closely behind Theodore, calling his name and asking for an explanation for his sudden breakdown, but he didn't stop. On the other hand, Alvin was infuriated; he was fed up with being lied to, even by someone he never wanted around in the first place. It made him feel as though he was losing everything - namely his grasp on reality.

He returned to the wooden bench and picked up his guitar before sitting down, strumming open-stringed chords and trying to determine whether this was really happening or if he'd just imagined it. Still reeling from his confrontation, he was beginning to doubt his recognition skills; he was losing faith in his own eyesight - his capability to remember faces and things. Was his vision skewed in some way? No, it couldn't be... Something was wrong with everybody; little by little, everyone's lies were creating a colossal gap in his sanity. He still couldn't wrap his head around the idea of Theodore, the kid who spent more time around him than any other kid his age actually denying they'd ever met.

But that wasn't the most unsettling part - the worst part about it was that it was plain to see Theodore was lying. The truth was practically leaking through the boy's pores!

Why would he lie? Why try so hard to disguise what was obvious?

He kept a mental note of this hunch and pushed it to the back of his mind. When he saw Dr. Walters today, he'd confess his suspicions in hopes of finally receiving some honest answers. This had to be some sort of misunderstanding - if he told Dr. Walters that, surely he'd agree...

...wouldn't he?

* * *

**Incidence two, Tuesday: 9am, East Wing**

**Alvin's POV**

It's half past nine and here I am once again sitting at one of those long, rectangular art tables in the group therapy room. For the third time this week, I've had craftmanship therapy. I'm not really sure what it s they're trying to get outta me by making me create stuff, but boy is it aggravating doing the same repetitive thing over and over again four times a week. Every day there are new people and new places and locations for my glorious schedule, but it's always the same damn thing.

This time, we're making decorative and scented candles. Candles with wicks that we're not allowed to light. Please tell me how that makes sense.  
I stare down at the two wicks on the table in front of me; all they're made of is just nylon with a wax coating and last a good few hours before disposal, yet each of them are worth more than a pair of silver-tip shoe laces. To the admistrators, it's important that the art program at this god-forsaken mental institution gets the top-priority for candle wicks. I'm pretty sure it's so that the wicks work for a long enough time so that we feel the need to make more than what we've been so graciously given. But hey, we're not allowed to light them anyway...

Dr. Stevens sits at the front of the crowded group therapy room next to the easel and acts out the directions of candle-making like a flight-attendent demonstrating safety rules on an airplane. She has this irritating energy that is almost criminal to have this early in the morning... and she had teeth that look as impossibly white as the actors on colegate toothpaste commercials. Everything about her makes me feel as though I live in complete imperfection. I'll bet her house looks like one of those houses you find on the front cover of the 'Home Living' magazines stacked high on waiting room tables at the doctor's office. She probably owns one of those half-terrier, half poodle dogs and has a perfect husband, perfect children and lots of ceramic lawn furniture. I don't know why I think that, but I have a hunch. I get those sometimes.

"What're you making today, Alvin?" she asked as she makes her rounds to each patient. Was this seriously a question? I'm making a candle. What _else_ would I be making?

"...a candle," I reply. She laughs.

"Oh no, I mean which of the candles are you making? Decorative or scented?"

I glance down at the art project in my hands - there was a mixing bowl full of ingredients and the crinkled instruction paper underneath it. I look like a two year-old playing their mother's cooking supplies. Hell, I don't even know what I'm making - and I could care less if one makes the room smell nice or if it's just there to add decor. Last week, I made two scented candles but threw them out because they smelled like old people and antique fabric when they were supposed to smell like lavendar and rose petal. The people who make these fragrances were born without noses, no doubt.

I leaned down to smell the concoction in front of me - it smells like plain old wax. I guess I hadn't added the perfume scent to the mix. I answer: "I eh...I think decorative?"

"Oh well great!" she chirps, "Are you almost ready to melt the wax bits?"

I nod. She walks to the front of the room and does more of her flight-attendant spiel, "Okay, so it looks like everyone is ready to put their pots on the stove! In a few minutes, we'll be heading off to the kitchen!"

Staring down at the soupy substance, I reach for the blue color dye. 'Blue Night' reads the label, but that wasn't true - this dye is dark gray. It doesn't look like night, nor does it seem to have the slightest tint of blue. The people who make these dyes don't have eyes - even colorblind people would say that this wasn't _'Blue Night.'_

I stare at the block of dye until my attention is pulled away from it by a deep voice from the table behind me

"Hey. Hey, you!" says someone. His voice is adament, but I don't turn my head; I figure he's not talking to me.

"You in the red! _Hey!_ Turn around for a sec!"

Reluctantly, I turn around to face the table behind me. At the table sits four guys, each of them more threatening and sketchy than the next: by the far right corner of the table sat the skinniest and most wiry of the four, toying with a rubix cube and chewing on a thick wad of bubblegum. Next to him sat a guy who looked to be about eighteen or nineteen with darker skin and a red bandana tied over his forehead. In his hands he holds playing cards, his eyes darting over each one as if he was making a life-changing decision. He played cards with the tallest of the four who sat across from him, a pale, jittery man with a long neck and countless scars covering most of his exposed skin.

Lastly, there was the guy in the blue-collared polo shirt - the most muscular of the four; he's the one calling to me. He sits at the table leaning on his elbows, waving his his hand toward himself as an inviting gesture.

"C'mere, kid."

I turn away, but before I can face forward completely, I feel something heavy hit the back of my neck. Immediately, I whip back around to face them; the one in the blue collared polo shirt is grinning widely, showing off a mouth full of perfect, pearly white teeth. He'd thrown a 5"x3" block of wax at me.

"What the-?! What the hell do you want?!" I snarl, slapping the chunk of wax on the table.

"Come over here," he demands. The guy in the bandana pulls out a chair and pats it invitingly, but I sit perfectly still.

"No. And stop throwing stuff at me," I reply. That probably wasn't the best idea - right after I turn back around, I feel more objects hitting the back of my body. The blocks of dye ricochet off my shoulder and wax scraps are being blown into my hair until I give up, whipping around again.

"I said stop throwing stuff at me!"

The blue-collared prick just scoffs, "or _what?"_

I silence myself once I realize that going against these thugs would mean a beating that I'm really not in the mood for. There's no doubt I'll lose - there are four of them and just one of me. Plus, causing a scene with these delinquents will most likely mean that I'll end up on the institution's 'naughty list' - that was something I've been trying to avoid at all costs. Mustering up the remainder of my patience, I try to ignore them again.

This seems to work out for me.. until I suddenly my head begins to feel cold. I touch the top of my head and discover in horror that something was missing: my cap.

I stand up abruptly, nearly knocking down my chair and storm over to the table behind me, my hands curled into tightly wound fists. The four jerks are practically giddy with amusement, but I'm too angry to care.

"Alright, give it back!" I demand, holding out my palm.

"Give what back?" asks the one in the bandana.

"My cap. Give me back my cap! I know you stole it!"

The four of them stir a bit, biting their lips to hold back snickers, "what cap?"

I'm not amused - not in the least, "my hat! You better give it back or-"

"Or what?" threatens blue-collared prick. Laying down their playing cards, the four of them rise to their feet. I notice that all of them are bigger than me and probably older, too. I'm suddenly faced with the decision to either suck it up and take the beating I'm in for or walk away. But who am I kidding? Why the hell would I walk away? That cap has been my most prized possession my whole life! Am I really going to let them keep it just because I'm afraid of a few scratches and bruises?

The tall one with all the scars cracks his knuckles, "you better use your manners, kid, or we'll turn you black an' blue."

"Yeah, little boy. When we're done with you, you ain't gonna have no teeth to chew with," threatened the one in the red bandana.

"You see, small fry," began blue collared polo shirt as his shadow loomed over me, "I don't like it when disobedient little punks like you contaminate my good mood. My mood is so very important to me, you know... and when somebody gets me in a bad mood, something's gotta give. So as punishment for your disrespect, I took the liberty of gaining ownership of something so very important to you." He puts on my cap, pulling over his neatly combed black hair, "an eye for an eye, as the saying goes."

If I were any angrier, I'll bet steam would be piping out of my ears; I want to tear this guy to limb from limb. He smile antagonistically, causing every hair on my body to stand straight up. This guy's just begging to be beaten senseless! I just don't get it. I thought that going to this kind of facility meant that I wouldn't have to deal with scumbags like these! I thought precautions would be taken so that I'd stay OUT of trouble, not have it come back again and again!

"Take it off. Now." I demand, clenching my teeth until I could barely say more. He responded with a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest.

_"Make me."_

* * *

**Thanks for reading, you guys! I know I've been taking a while to continue, but I'll try to update sooner!**_  
_

**So what's the significance of the church in Alvin's life?**

**Why is Theodore pretending he doesn't know Alvin? What's going to happen to Alvin with these four thugs?**

**Reviews are helpful and greatly appreciated! ****Thanks!**

**-Blythe**


	10. Bitten

**Hey guys! It's been a while, hasn't it? **

**Well to keep things nice and short in my author notes, I'd like to apologize for this late update. I won't get into it, but I've just had a bunch on my plate. I'm really sorry for keeping you guys waiting for so long. ****Thankfully, this is an interesting chapter... I've been waiting to write it for a long time! I hope you like it. The puzzle pieces are all coming together! ):D**

****Oh, and before I forget: For those of you following my other stories, if you could visit my poll and vote or inbox me on which of my stories I should update next, that'd really help me out! (Seriously...I have no idea which one to update next! Help!) That'd be awesome.**

**Thank you guys for being so supportive and patient!**

**Alright, so here's chapter 10! Leave a review if you're inclined to do so! (They give me the inspiration to update faster! ;) ) **

**Love, Blythe.**

* * *

**Chapter 10 - Bitten**

"Are you sure you don't want someone to look at that?"

Dr. Walters leaned forward in his seat, tilting his head in every direction to get a good view of my arm. Tucking my elbow behind my back, I hid from his sight as much as I could.

"No," I hissed, "it'll heal when it heals."

"At least cover it with gauze or something-"

"Band-Aids and gauze only stick to my hair."

He backed away again, but kept gawking at the wound. The only sounds in the room that came in between words were high-trill squeaks from the hinges on my chair as I leaned away from him. I can't say I really blame him for being so concerned - after all, what kind of psychologist wouldn't be concerned when one of their patients shows up to an appointment with a blood-spotted washcloth over his upper arm?

Yes, I've had plenty of wounds in my time; I've had cuts and bruises from sports and scrapes here and there from falling off of my bike. I've had a broken heart, I've been burned numerous times by a match or a lighter, I've lost a few baby teeth, I've broken some bones, and I've even experienced the pain of having glass shards being picked out of my skin one by one while I was conscious enough to watch and remember how it felt. But I have never experienced being bitten so hard that I started bleeding - not even by a dog. I don't think I would've ever pictured this happening either. Never by a human, anyway.

The problem wasn't that I was bleeding from the bite; in fact, the wound itself wasn't extremely deep. The problem was that it happened - and by a human, no less.

"So Alvin," he began delicately, "would you like to explain to me how you hurt your arm?"

I didn't process the question mainly because I actually didn't know how to explain it. One minute, I was being pushed and pulled. The next, I was suddenly writhing in pain from someone else's teeth. Could I explain this phenomenon? Not exactly. Well, not scientifically...

"Let me ask you something first, doc," I replied, "do any of the patients in this looney bin have a history with rabies?"

His response was resentful, looking almost as if I'd just asked him if he was doing his job right, "No."

"Oh, good then. I'm not so worried now."

Dr. Walters bent toward me again, this time removing his glasses and putting them in his jacket pocket, "Why are you concerned about rabies?"

"I think anyone should be worried about rabies after being bitten hard by a wild animal."

"There are no wild animals in this facility, Alvin."

I laughed at this. After what I'd experienced, why would I think of the people here as any different than your average rabies-infested badger or raccoon? Just because they're humans doesn't mean they can't be just as sick.

"...I'm not sure if I agree with you on that." I snidely remarked. He didn't like this.

"I think you need to have that looked at by someone. If left untreated, any could get infected-"

"No." I rejected, "I'll be fine. It's not that deep."

Whether I'd agreed to treating it or not, it wouldn't have mattered - as soon as I said refused, he picked up the phone on his desk and typed in a four-digit sequence.

"Sal? Yeah, it's Eric. I have a patient here that needs medical attention. He won't show me the wound, but it looks rather serious. How soon can you get here? Okay that's...okay, good. My office. Thank you."

His eyes flitted from the telephone wire and back to me as soon as he hung up the phone. He scribbled something down on a sheet of paper and tucked it under the metal clasp on his clipboard, keeping watch of the clock hanging above the doorway.

"I didn't know your name was Eric," I said. He peered back down at his clipboard on his lap, probably taking note of what time it was during my appointment. I babbled on, pretending as though I wasn't concerned at all with my wound even though I could feel the area around the bite mark heating up and tingling like it'd been washed over with hydrogen peroxide.

"You know, I hear you can tell a lot about a person by their name. I wonder what they say about people named Alvin, hm? I wonder what personality fits someone like me. Sometimes I think about if they choose names for all those disney characters based on the way their names sound. Y'know that movie that came out a few years ago, the Little Mermaid? I saw it last year in one of those backstreet drive-ins when I came back from this place. The prince in that movie was named Eric, I think. I didn't like that movie too much. Those two evil eel things with the different colored eyes creeped me out."

He was looking up from his clipboard now, but this time, he didn't look pleased.

"Eric... heh. Eh-rick. Air-Rick. What does it mean? E-Rick."

"Alvin, please tell me what happened to your arm."

"Eric...Eric... Certainly isn't a charming name. I'd picture as more of a William or a Henry... Eric is a strange one, wouldn't ya say? Just think about-"

"Alvin," interrupted Dr. Walters calmly. He waited patiently for a response.

I recoiled from my off-topic rant, chewing at my bottom lip and allowing myself to sink into the leather of my chair. Of all the doctors I've had, Dr. Walters one was certainly resilient. Nah, maybe 'resilient' isn't the right word... maybe the word 'stubborn' fits better. Dr. Callaway took a backseat to this guy, and that's really saying something. The only difference between the two is that Dr. Callaway was more ill-tempered. This Dr. Walters guy is strangely less predictable.

I began thinking about what I'd say in that moment. I thought if it was a breach of protocol to push a patient past their mental comfort. I mean, think about it on my level: If someone has a crippling fear of heights, you wouldn't blindfold them and hold them over the ledge of a forty-three story building, would you? It's the same as someone who's being treated for claustrophobia. Is it really necessary to lock them into confinement until they got tired of screaming? The very same goes for me - was it really wise to keep pressing a kid with a history of arson?

"First, tell me something, doc," I wagered, keeping a firm hold on my covered arm, "does acupuncture usually work wonders for a basket case such as myself?"

He paused, putting his pen and clipboard back on his lap, "I'm not quite sure I get what you mean."

"I just mean that if I knew I would be poked at for answers all day, I would've signed myself up for acupuncture therapy instead of sitting in this sad little office all day."

He didn't say anything. I rambled on.

"And I'm sure an acupuncturist wouldn't be poking at places I prefer to keep needle-free."

"This is not a matter of poking around. I ask you these questions so that I know how to help you. This is for your own good."

"My own good. Huh. Y'know, I've been hearing that crap ever since I came to this god-forsaken place, doc!" I snapped, "but so far, all I've gotten out of your delightful services is a lowered sense of security, a bite mark by one of your lunatic patients, acrylic paint stains all over my clothes, and no sleep because you put me in a room around the corner from the drama queen of section C!

"What is it you prefer, Alvin? What do you want me to do for you?"

"I want you to let me out of here, that's what I want!"

"You see, this is where you don't get it..." the doctor shook his head, crossing one leg over the other as he leaned back, "I can't do that for you."

The fact that he was so calm about my confrontation made my arm sting even more. I stood up out of my seat, completely grounded, "then you're not doing your job!"

What came next was even more infuriating than a fire-back response.

"No, I don't think I'm the one not doing his job," said the doctor, "I think you are."

There came a creaking sound from behind me as three men emerged from the hallway and entered the room. Just as soon as they came, they left, taking me with them as I surrendered within their grasp. I was escorted from the office down the hall to the nurse's station, all the while thinking about how the day had unfolded since I'd woken up...

* * *

**Earlier that day:**

"Make me."

A few seconds had passed before I even realized what kind of pickle I'd gotten myself into. The gang of penitentiary bullies surrounded me until they took the shape of four walls; four big, intimidating walls. Each of them breathed heavily as they loomed over me, cracking their knuckles and necks as if they were about to either pick up something heavy or get into a brawl. I hadn't felt claustrophobia like this before. It was worse than being locked in a closet that only got smaller the more you struggled to fight your way out of it. Only difference was that my so-called 'closet' was made up of skin, muscles, and a guarantee of bodily harm.

"I said, make me." repeated the commanding one of the four. His bottom lip twisted into a partial grin. It was hard to tell whether he was so angry he was smiling, or rather that he was playing around with me and took some kind of pleasure out of my powerlessness.

He picked me up by the collar with one of his mighty hands and shook me a bit, expecting me to crumble at his fingertips. I think he was surprised I didn't.

"I'm talking to you, rodent!" The threads of my shirt crackled under his grip. I expected to be leaving this unpleasant experience with a few bruises and maybe even a broken jaw, but I would be getting my cap back, regardless of the circumstances.

"Don't call me a rodent," I snarled, touching my toes to the ground as much as I could. By now, I'd already accepted the possibility of of a black eye or a missing tooth the way a possum accepts his fate while clutched tightly between the ravenous jaws of a hungry woodland fox. Digging my fingernails into the skin of his wrists, I tried with everything I had to resist, kicking and flailing under I grew tired. It was embarrassing; the more I tried, the more it turned out to be a lost cause... and I didn't want to think about how completely hopeless I must've looked to them.

"Can you believe this guy?" the lead thug ridiculed, "I mean, if I didn't know any better, I'd say the this squirt was trying to hurt me!"

The remaining thugs were amused, moving in closer and shoving at my sides. I felt my shirt being tugged in several different directions at the same time and someone was pulling at the hair on my head. I was doomed, and to make matters feel worse, my pride was being reduced to mere ashes of whatever I had left of my dignity. THAT felt much worse than my external punishment.

"Argh! Stop it! Let go of me!" I yelled. The pulling and shoving continued uninterrupted as I was being moved in every direction against my will. My arms were held behind my back and I was rendered completely immobile, giving in. They taunted me during their free-for-all and each spoke at the same time until their voices became a jumbled, indecipherable mess of murmurs and laughter. I wondered if I would beunconscious by the end of their frenzy.

Then suddenly, they quieted when a sharp pain shot up my left arm, causing a holler to escape the back of my throat. I searched my arm frantically for the source of my agony until I found it: one of them had embedded one hell of a bit mark just above my elbow. Blood oozed out of the wound and spilled over my skin. Wide-eyed, I tried to make sense of what was happening - had I just been bitten?!

Abruptly, I was released and thrown to the ground. The leader of the gang drew his arm upward, smacking the stoutest member of the gang upside the face.

"What the fuck was that, Ricky? I thought I told you not to do that, goddammit!"

The others joined in, each of them following their leader.

"Yeah! Quit biting people, ya animal!"

"What do you think you are, eh? A fucking dog?!"

"What is going on here?" lectured a voice, feminine and apart from the rest. I looked up from my wound to find a woman standing before the five of us. It was the well-groomed Dr. Stevens. She stared down at me, her rose-colored lips thinning into a frustrated line; I assumed she was more aggravated with the fact her class was being interrupted once again by the same person as last time. Except this time, no one was slinging paint around.

"What is the meaning of all this?" she directed her attention to the leader, who seemed to have stiffened at her arrival, "Reginald. Please tell me you're not up to your usual shenanigans."

"Why, no, Dr. Stevens!" defended Reginald fakely, "I don't know how all of this came about, but I didn't mean to-"

"Yeah, save it." Dr. Stevens snubbed. She eyed a different member of the four - the one with all the scars, "Edward? Would you like to explain?"

"Nah, Stevens,"

"Angelo?"

The darker-skinned one with the bandana shook his head. She glanced at the one named Ricky who'd bitten me a minute or so earlier, but didn't bother asking him what had happened. From the looks of it, I'm sure she already knew what happened. Her method of asking was for the sake of letting someone come forward about it.

However, she didn't know about the full result of the clash between me and the four of them. As she helped me to my feet, she suddenly realized the consequences of their roughhousing; the crescent-shaped injury above my elbow.

"...Would any of you boys like to tell me how Alvin got a bite mark on the upper part of his arm?"

They stirred once again, but none of them had anything to say. Finally, Reginald came forth from the group and really turned on the charm, "Well you see... Me and the boys were just minding our own business and this guy just suddenly decides he wants to steal my cap..."

"Is that so?" remarked Dr. Stevens, playing along.

"Yeah, yeah! And so what happened was he tried to take it from me... "

"Okay...**"**

"...so my boys an' I tried to keep him off, but he wouldn't-"

"Alright, that's quite enough." said Dr. Stevens dryly. She reached up and took the cap from atop his hand, holding it by the viser, "Now Reginald...Answer me this: When did you change your name to 'Alvin Seville?'"

"What?"

"I said, when did you change your name to..." she flipped my cap upside down and untucked the tag from within the bindings, showing him what I had written on it: "'Alvin Seville?'"

Reginald didn't have an answer for her. Instead, he threw her a grin - the most nauseatingly false grin I've ever seen on a person.

There was something unsettling about this character. Everything about him reminded me of those insidious villains I'd watched in cartoons as a kid - evil and venomous without reason and drawn to chaos and trouble as if he lived to cause it. I wondered if he was one of those guys I'd always see on crime shows; the psychotic type that like to watch others suffer and took pleasures in misfortune and paradox. Maybe he started that fight with me just because he enjoyed doing it... and maybe the other few did too - even the one who bit me.

They must've thought I was so weak, standing there and holding my arm like I needed someone else to come and dress the wound for me. Each of them eyed me as if I were something to eat; as if they'd taken whatever I had left of my pride. As blood continued to trickle in between my fingertips, I took my hat back from the doctor and exited the group quickly, leaving them without so much as another word. I didn't care if I was bleeding; I didn't care about the throbbing pain.

I peered up at the clock; it was 9:25. Therapy with Dr. Walters would start in five minutes. I headed back down the D hallway and into my room, promptly rinsing off the blood from my arm. Dabbing everything dry with a wash cloth, I put pressure to the wound and pushed it to the back of my mind. Dr. Walters wasn't going to like this.

And I wasn't about to explain myself.

* * *

When I dream, I am reminded of colors I do not see when I open my eyes. They are unlike colors that filter through my eyelids while I'm awake; they don't have names, they don't have shades, yet they aren't gray. When I see them, I don't hear any noise. Instead, I feel calm; undisturbed. Whatever had happened before falling asleep is forgotten and I'm allowed to drift.

Immersed in my unconsciousness, the colors begin to mix and mingle and take different shapes. Oblivion takes the form of deep mauves and abyssal blues. Wonder begins to manifest itself into cerulean, curiosity into canary yellow, and eagerness dissipates into jagged red shapes and tangerine spots. I have no need to think about anything beyond my resplendent medley of illuminations; there is nothing else. Whatever was reality before is now part of my perfect blend of artistry.

However, they do not stay. It isn't long before my parade of pigments begins to fade away, leading into a darker part of my mind that only creeps to the surface when I have no conscious choice to push it away.

The darkness starts with a brick house - the same brick house that appears in most of my dreams. It is a house that sits alone without neighbors for the next quarter mile or so, alone in a desolate woodland. Surrounding this brick house is a garden that frames the windowsill, contrasting in color to the weathered beige and rustic red of the concrete foundation. Mom would plant shrubberies all around the house and had a patch of mulched soil for her herb garden. My brothers and I spent a lot of our time in that garden in the summer as small children, picking raspberries from the raspberry bushes and playing in the sprinkler until late afternoon. It seemed as though summer time was shorter than all other seasons. The days would go by too quickly and just as they'd arrived, they'd left.

I always remembered the garden favorably; the best part about it was that it was always on the outside. Mom never had potted plants inside the house.

What went on on the inside was the cause for my constant mental visitations. The creaky old hardwood floors undone by age and overuse were unfurnished, so we always had to wear shoes, even when getting ready for bed; if we didn't, we were at risk of getting splinters. The roof was missing a few panels from years of rain and wind, so there was always water dripping from the ceiling when it rained and the house was always cold even when mom had the furnace on. Back then, we didn't have much - not even warm water to bathe in. I remember the inside better than a photograph would. But it wasn't the poor condition of the house that make these memories hard for me to reflect on.

In this dream, I'm suddenly a small child again, exploring the more unknown parts of the house while it rained outside. My vision unaltered and arms outstretched, I follow my two brothers eagerly. My nose picks up the pungent smell of bleach and ammonia; mom is scrubbing down the kitchen floor again while my brothers and I set out on our indoor expedition.

"Over here, Simon!" one of my brothers calls out to me.

"You can't catch me!" taunts the other, tugging on the back of my shirt.

By now, we're in a fit and a frenzy, buzzing about as self-proclaimed aeroplanes as we take flight up and down each hallway. My older and more agile brother is beginning to step on the backs of my heels, so I run faster until we all separate and fly solo in all different areas of each room. We are pilots of the sky within the boundaries of a house, but that meant nothing. Jumping off of a coffee table was equally as thrilling as a nosedive in a jet plane, and if any of us needed a parachute, there were plenty of blankets laying around from when we pretended to be under the sea that morning.

Our solo flight became competitive after we'd gone through every room, so we played airplane tag, if such a thing existed before that day.  
"You're it, Simon!" antagonized my elder brother. My younger brother followed closely behind him, "you gotta count to ten first!"  
I followed the rules promptly, covering my eyes against the doorframe of the kitchen.

"One...two...three..." I counted, pausing evenly after every number. Like many children, I was too impatient to play by the rules. I continued to count, but I was already moving. My eyes, though sealed shut, were anxious to flutter open and begin to search. I reached the other side of the kitchen by the time I reached ten.  
"Nine...TEN!"

My eyes opened... but by then, it was too late. As I'd been rushing out of the kitchen, mom was rushing in with a new opened pail of mixed bleach. I collided with her and my face was suddenly wet with what felt like soap water. I thought nothing of it for a moment, taking a moment to assess what I was feeling, irritation forming at the corners of my eyes.  
Before I even knew what was happening, I was burdened by a debilitating pain; a pain that brought me to my knees. It felt as though my eyes had caught fire - it was sickening; excruciating and unlike any pain I'd ever felt. I touched my eyelids and tried to rub the pain away, but it escalated rapidly, causing me to panic and call out in agony. I cried, I screamed, I even begged for it to stop. I hit the floor with my fists and tried as much as I was able to wipe the bleach and ammonia from my eyes, but the pain only seemed to worsen. I sobbed and pleaded for help until each of my words was a high frequency screech, but to no avail. I tugged on Mom's skirt, desperately trying to pull her out of her trance.

"Mommy, please! Please! Help! Mommy! Help me, please! It hurts, Mommy!"

Mom just stop there, watching. She said nothing, she did nothing. She just watched silently. Why wouldn't she help me?  
My brothers immediately came back for me, trying to comprehend my frantic words. One of them ran outside to our nearest neighbor's house, yelling for help as the other dialed the emergency hotline. By the time our neighbor came, it'd been several minutes and I was beginning to feel the corrosive effects of the ammonia. I could barely make out the vaguest outline of my neighbor as he burst through the door, but he immediately took action, pulling my head under the faucet and running water over my eyes and nose. My face had been rinsed off, but it still burned and wasn't getting any better.  
Thankfully, the paramedics arrived a short while later and took me into immediate care. I was rushed away with sirens and the raw after effects of chemical burns.

After the pain finally went away, I was admitted into the hospital and treated for my chemical injuries and a day or so later, I was visited by the hospital's optometrist.

"You're very lucky," she said, "if you hadn't gotten here sooner, you might've gone blind."

I might have gone blind. Blind. No more colors, no more shapes. Blackness all the time.

As my eyesight was tested, I began to feel my very first taste of resentment - a feeling one doesn't feel until a more mature age. Resentment towards my mother. I would never forget her face; that blankness that seemed to consume her as I fell to the floor. She didn't do anything. How could she just sit there and watch as her son writhed in pain? What was she waiting for? Didn't she care?

When my results came back, I discovered I'd need to wear glasses from then on. My eyesight was permanently damaged, and the scars from my chemical burns would remain permanent as well. This was the new me: Simon with glasses. Simon with discolored hair and damaged skin. Simon with a grudge toward his mother.

I wasn't the only one who noticed her strange behavior. My neighbor reported it, claiming that mom was 'unaware,' 'negligent' and 'unresponsive.' Agreeing with him made me feel as though I was turning my back on something I'd been faithful toward my entire life, but I was still in pain - the worst pain of all: betrayal.

After the incidence, we no longer lived with mother. We were taken away to another home on Cedar Avenue, Los Angeles, several miles away from what we'd called our home to live with a man who'd never been married, never had children, and wrote music for a living. It was the type of place we eventually grew to love - it was the type of home built just for the sake of growing up in. The three of us grew to love it as we'd grown to love the little brick house.

Mom was taken to a new home, too; it was a place the authorities called 'a better place for her,' but my brothers and I didn't know what to make of that. What could've been a better place for Mom other than the little brick house? The idea wasn't possible for my two brothers to comprehend...but it was for me.

From here, my memories recede and I do not remember the weeks following the incidence. Bits and pieces of my reminiscences filter back to me in my dreams, some of them pleasant, and others are not. Suddenly, I'm pushed in a deeper, more unknown part of my unconscious mind. I don't see anything at all.

"Simon!" calls a voice. I don't see anything, but I begin to open myself up to the sounds around me as the voice continues to yell, "Simon!"  
I open my mouth to make a sound, but nothing comes out. A throbbing pain begins from my right ear to my forehead and a headache soon follows until I can finally see vague images in front of me. I see a figure in red standing over me. I can't tell who it is; it is a beclouded image. This must mean I'm not wearing my glasses.

A shorter, stouter figure comes into view - the figure is green and pushing against the red figure. I am confused, and my headache worsens the more the screaming continues.

"Run, Simon!" the voice shouts again, "Run! Hurry!"

"Fake! Fake!" shouts another voice. This voice is different - deeper than the one telling me to run.

The red figure holds up an object - one that is deep, gray and shapeless - and brings it down towards me. I feel more throbbing and the headache bewilders me. I try to find the feeling in my arms and legs to crawl away. No use. The figure in red brings the gray shape down again and again.

"Imposter!" yells the deeper voice of the two, the red figure, "Where's Steven?!"

"No, stop! Please!" begs the higher voice, "You're killing him!"

I try to say something again. Nothing. I don't know what is unfolding in front of me and I cannot see it. The green and red blurs fight against each other, struggling and huffing until I begin to fade away again. This time, the pain fades with me.

Blackness again. I see nothing. The colors are gone, the shapes have disappeared. I'm now in the more nameless territory of my mind. I'm finally able to rest once again, no more images to bother me or memories to relive against my control. My mind begins to feel weightless once again and my heart beat is the strongest commotion in my entire body. _I'm okay_, I tell myself, _I'm okay._

"Simon? Simon, wake up."

I don't stir as my body regains its feeling again. My fingers and toes stretch out and the sensation in my knees and arms begin to return. I am conscious now, but I'm still heavy from sleep. Somebody is shaking me.

"Simon. Simon?"

I open my eyes and see a blob of green sitting next to me. I put on my glasses and see my brother, worry-stricken. He has a grip on my leg, shaking it as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

"Simon, were you having a nightmare?"

I nod against my pillow, "Yes. But I'm alright now."

He gives me a weak smile, "I-i'm making breakfast. Come downstairs when you're ready, okay?"

"Okay," I said, "Thank you, Theodore."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! For those of your who've been waiting for this update, thank you again for your patience!**

**More of the puzzle pieces are coming together, it seems! What did Simon's dream mean? Will Alvin become a rebel against the hospital staff? **

**Reviews are appreciated!**

**Until next time, **

**-Blythe**


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